April Fools Read online




  April Fools

  Now I needed to concentrate on finding the other piece of the charm. Under the table in the foyer seemed the most obvious place to look. Come to think of it, nothing about the business of solving a murder proved to be logical. I searched for a few minutes and couldn’t find a thing except a lot of dust bunnies.

  I crawled around on the floor, straining my eyes and banging my knees on the hardwood, and continued the search without any luck. The piece had to be here somewhere near the table. I doubted it fell too far from the charm. I spotted a small metal object close to the baseboard molding and reached for it.

  A sharp pain resonated through my head. The force of whatever hit me knocked me flat on the floor. My vision dimmed, and went dark.

  Later, how much later I don’t know, I felt someone shaking my arm. A familiar male voice called my name.

  “Suzie, can you hear me? What the hell happened?”

  My head ached when I tried to turn over. “Steven? Is that you?” I moaned. His blurred figure loomed over me.

  “Yeah it’s me. I’ve got to get you to the emergency room. You’ve got a pretty bad head wound. They’ll probably need to put some stitches in the cut.”

  He tried to help me to my feet, but my legs turned into gelatin. The room started spinning and faded to dark again.

  April Fools

  A. C. MASON

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Mystery Novel

  Edited by: Joan Afman

  Copy Edited by: Joan Powell

  Senior Editor: Pat Evans

  Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

  Cover Artist: Tricia FitzGerald

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  Copyright © 2010 by Arlene Messa

  ISBN: 978-1-59705-399-0

  Published by Wings ePress, Inc.

  Published In the United States Of America

  Wings ePress Inc.

  3000 N. Rock Road

  Newton, KS 67114

  Dedication

  Love to my family for all the support and encouragement they’ve given me in my writing endeavors.

  Prologue

  New Orleans, La.

  April 1

  Headlights from a passing car sent shards of light streaking across the wall of the darkened porch. Only the hiss of tires on damp pavement broke the night silence around me. A cloying combination of perfumes wafted in my direction from wisteria and narcissus blossoms growing nearby. The sickening, sweet smell made me gag. My stomach was already messed up. Too many margaritas. Our annual April Fools Day celebration always brought out the worst in everyone. I should’ve stayed with Anne—at least until Steven decided to come home, instead of returning to the party with Greg. The warm humid air felt as heavy as the weight of guilt on my chest.

  Not a single light shone inside the house. A strange sense of apprehension, a premonition of pending disaster came over me. Dummy, nothing is wrong. Anne’s probably gone to bed. I could retrieve the key from its hiding place and let myself in to check on her. Or maybe I should go back home to my own place and leave well enough alone. My poor sister-in-law held her emotions together all evening at the party only to lose her composure when we brought her home. Snippets of the earlier scene flitted through my mind.

  She placed her hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, Susan. I know he’s your brother, but…”

  “Just because he’s my brother doesn’t mean I condone his behavior.”

  The tears she tried to hide. The pain in her eyes. These might not have been obvious to anyone else, but I’d known her a long time—since grade school. I wanted to slap him silly. How could he cheat on someone as sweet as Anne?

  That’s it. I’m going inside. If she’s already asleep, I’ll simply leave quietly and no one will ever know about the intrusion.

  I located the key under the yellow flower pot. Yes, under a flower pot. Great security system they have here. Very convenient for burglars, that is. I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. The door thudded against an object in the dark foyer and vibrated from the impact. My heart thumped in unison. What the devil was that? Against my better judgment I slipped my hand inside, feeling along the wall for the light switch. I wished to God I hadn’t.

  One

  New Orleans

  Ten years later

  Rain danced across St. Charles Avenue in waves and pounded against the windows of Garden House Restaurant. Dark skies always depressed me but today the dreary conditions outside only exacerbated my low spirits. Inside, the lavender plumes of wisteria blossoms and golden narcissus depicted in the wall mural brought back horrific memories of the night I found Anne’s body. God, I could almost smell those flowers now. My appetite disappeared. I pushed the plate of half eaten Chicken Parmesan away. Why did I consent to have lunch here today of all days?

  Exactly ten years ago the murder of my sister-in-law and close friend Anne LaGrange made the headlines of the newspapers and the lead story on local television news shows. No one had ever been arrested for her death, but her husband, my twin brother Steven, remained the prime suspect to this day, although they never found enough proof to charge him.

  Even my attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation of the couple in the booth behind me met with limited success in shutting out the traumatic event I’d spent ten years trying to erase from my mind. The pair’s voices sounded familiar, and they seemed to be having an argument.

  “…the very reason you made me go to lunch today.”

  “You could’ve refused.”

  “Then I’d never hear the end of it from you.”

  Seated across the table, my cousin Melanie kept babbling about our debutante ball. Her incessant chatter about an event which took place nearly eighteen years ago, combined with the jangle of all those gold bracelets on her arm and the noise from the larger than usual lunch crowd in the restaurant prevented me from hearing anything except a few enticing words from the unidentified pair in the neighboring booth.

  “Sleeping around...”

  “Stop it.”

  “Sus-an,” Melanie said. “You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said. You should have fond memories of that night. It was your debut as well as mine.”

  “Sorry, my mind seems to be elsewhere today. You were talking about the ball.”

  Curiously, a long time had passed since she mentioned this occasion. Why did she select this particular day to bring up the subject? Melanie loved to reminisce about our debutante days and usually did it with relish, but today her presentation seemed to lack the usual luster. Maybe the date also depressed her. This must be her attempt to prevent those terrible images from entering her mind. Talking about any happy occasion sure beat remembering Anne’s murder.

  “There were so many great people there.” The look in her eyes seemed very close to reverence. “Everyone who is anyone in New Orleans attended the ball.”

  “It just doesn’t mean much to me anymore. I have other interests now. My life has evolved since our debut days.”

  “Are you saying mine hasn’t?” A heavy dose of indignation filled her voice.

  “No, of course not, but the cotillion is ancient history.” My previous remarks came out snappish, but every time April Fools Day rolls around I turn into a
grouch.

  Melanie sulked, obviously offended by my remarks. At least she’d stopped talking.

  “You ought to know me by now. I have a tendency to blurt out things without meaning to hurt anyone’s feelings,” I said. “I’ve never been known for my tact anyway.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I should know better after all these years. You always were rather blunt.”

  The couple in the next booth spoke in strained voices. Darn it, I didn’t catch anything they said.

  “Tell me, what ever made you think about our debut today?” I watched Melanie’s face carefully. “I don’t believe you invited me to lunch to discuss our big night.”

  Her eyes moistened. She fidgeted with one of her gold hoop earrings for a second or two. “Last night I went through a box of mementos. You know, old photographs, ticket stubs, and dried corsages. I found a picture of the three of us taken the night of the ball. You, me, and…Anne.” She produced the photograph from her purse and pushed it across the table.

  I smiled, remembering a very special spring night. The scene in the snapshot came to life in my mind. The magnificent ballroom, glamorous gowns and couples whirling around on the polished wood floor danced in my head.

  On numerous occasions in the past, I’d met Melanie and Anne here at Garden House for lunch. We were usually joined by several other women who had shared that rite of passage with us on a warm May night in the ballroom of the Maison de Marigny Hotel. All of these women, with the exception of Anne, always put their own spin on being a former deb, each one trying to outdo the others. Not hard to believe Melanie kept those dried up flowers and old ticket stubs all these years.

  “Today is the anniversary of Anne’s death,” Melanie said, disrupting my somewhat pleasant thoughts. “Ten years ago. April Fools Day. Steven’s twisted idea of a joke.”

  Her words sent my stomach plunging. “No one knows for sure who committed the murder and I resent your insinuation.”

  “The police know he did it, don’t they? Why didn’t they arrest him?”

  I didn’t like the direction this conversation was headed. “They never had enough evidence to charge anyone.”

  Every year, the anniversary of the murder distressed me terribly because I was probably the last person, other than the killer, to see Anne alive. The fact I discovered her body made the recollections even worse. Melanie seemed oblivious to the pain she caused me by bringing up the subject. How could she do this to me? Memories of the tragedy hit me like a blast of hot air.

  The Times Picayune had plastered news of the murder across the top of its front page. Anne Sinclaire LaGrange was a member of a prominent New Orleans family, debutante, even Queen to Rex, King of Carnival. Fresh out of college, she married a promising young entrepreneur from a wealthy family and became the Princess who married the Prince. However, an unhappy ending to this fairy tale lay ahead. Someone killed her and the Prince became the prime suspect in her murder.

  Melanie leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “You’d think after all these years, Steven would stop protesting his guilt. The interview with his attorney last night on the 10 o’clock news absolutely floored me, but I’m glad the police department is considering reopening the case.”

  “Did you ever take into account the possibility Steven is innocent?”

  Melanie’s jaw tightened and her face drained of color. “You’ve always thought so. I know he’s your blood, but with all the evidence, I don’t see how you can say such a thing.”

  “It’s something to think about,” I said. “Besides, he’s your blood too.”

  Melanie conveniently ignored the relationship factor. “Steven is guilty. There’s nothing to think about.”

  Although I strongly disapproved of Steven’s actions as an adult, a seed of doubt concerning his guilt had long been growing like an ovule of skepticism implanted in my brain. At various times its growth would be suppressed by my anger over Anne’s death, only to be fertilized by some thought or word causing my reservations about his guilt to sprout anew.

  “Oh yes,” Melanie rambled on. “He’s guilty all right, but I think one of his lady friends helped him. Or else he killed her so he could marry another woman.”

  Flabbergasted by her statement, I managed to squeak out my question. “Do you know of a particular woman who would be willing to help Steven commit murder? Or one for whom he would kill his wife?”

  “Well, no I don’t.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat and brushed a strand of blond hair away from her face. “I’m basing my theory on his past behavior.” Melanie began her sulking act again. “You sound like Jim when you start asking questions. It feels like a police interrogation.”

  “Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean to interrogate you.”

  Warm and pleasant thoughts of my husband filled my head, pushing aside the bad memories at least for a moment. “I’ve been around him for so long, I guess we must sound alike.”

  Much to the dismay of my socialite parents, I married a police officer. To be more specific, Jim Foret is a homicide detective with the New Orleans Police Department. His first case happened to be Anne’s murder. We met during the investigation and were married two years later.

  Melanie gave me a smile, which meant she wasn’t mad. Then her expression faded to serious again.

  “Thinking about Anne gets me riled up,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I said. Her constant bad mouthing of Steven also had the same effect on me. Before I could redirect the conversation, a rustling in the next booth and the clinking of silverware grabbed my attention. The mystery couple appeared and hurriedly walked past us on their way to the exit.

  “It’s John and Mary Catherine.” Melanie made a face reflecting her distaste for the woman.

  John Durand reminded me of Napoleon Bonaparte. In my opinion he even resembled the famous Corsican with his receding hairline, his short stature and slightly pudgy physique. His public persona portrayed him as being in command of every single facet of his life, including his marriage. His wife Mary Catherine’s affair with my brother proved otherwise. She rushed past the booth, arm and arm with him without so much as a glance in our direction. Her golden blond hair and purple flowered print dress made a good match to the wall decor.

  “She didn’t even have the courtesy to speak,” Melanie said.

  “Judging from the bits of conversation I overheard, she and John were having a tiff. I don’t think she felt like stopping to talk.” Too bad I couldn’t hear more of the argument instead of being reminded of a very difficult time in my life.

  Melanie snorted. “It’s amazing they’re still married, considering what came out after Anne’s murder.”

  “You mean the gossip about her little fling with Steven?”

  “What else?” she snapped. “How could John stay with her after such a public scandal?”

  “He forgave her, I guess.” What did I say about her lacking luster? She’s outdone herself with the dramatics now and the ‘public scandal’ business.

  Her blue eyes sparked with an emotion I couldn’t read. Subjects concerning tabloid leanings always appealed to her. Were Steven’s extra marital affairs the main attraction here? Or was she drawn to the subject like the public hypnotized by gossip about Britain’s Royal Family, or the latest screen hunk or starlet? Maybe her fascination incorporated a little of both.

  “You never did like Mary Catherine.” The woman wasn’t exactly one of my favorites, but my cousin’s reaction seemed over the top even for her. “Why?”

  “She hurt Anne.”

  “No,” I argued. “Steven hurt Anne. I hate to admit it, but my brother’s a good-looking, smooth talking man who appears to have charmed the pants off a whole lot of women, including Mary Catherine.”

  Melanie shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. I wonder if she’ll be at the party tonight.”

  “What party?” Then I remembered; A debutantes’ reunion, of sorts. “Never mind, you’ll have to fill me in on who showed up.”
<
br />   “Aren’t you going?”

  “No, I’ll pass. I’m not really in a festive mood.”

  “It’s my fault for bringing up Anne’s murder.” Melanie pouted. “I’ll just go alone.”

  As a child, she had a way of making her friends and family feel guilty. She managed to look so frail and vulnerable as if she needed us along for protection. At thirty-five years old she hadn’t outgrown her penchant for this childish act. She still retained the ability to send someone on a guilt trip in spite of the fact the person knew it was all a performance.

  “Okay,” I said with resignation. “What time were you planning to pick me up?”

  “About seven.” She threw me one of her angelic smiles. “I knew you wouldn’t miss Amanda’s party.”

  A number of years ago, those charming smiles along with her beautiful face, landed her one of the most sought after bachelors in New Orleans, Michael Benoit, older brother of Amanda Benoit Williamson, a member of my former social circle and hostess for the party this evening.

  “If you’re going to pick me up at seven, I’d better get back to the house. I need to get in some quality writing time before we go partying.”

  I signaled the waiter to bring our checks. He promptly delivered the customary black folders with the bills tucked inside. I slipped my credit card in and set the folder aside.

  “How’s the book coming along?” Melanie asked, doing the same with her card.

  “A problem with the plot needs to be worked out, and it’s driving me crazy.”

  I pursued what I considered to be a career as a mystery writer, but basically, Jim and I survived on a detective’s salary since my only experience with the publishing industry so far has been a half dozen rejection letters and winning a short story contest. The prize—having the story published in the magazine sponsoring the contest—didn’t contribute a lot to our annual income. I’m not complaining about the situation, mind you. Interest income from an inheritance left to me by my paternal grandparents prevented the necessity for me to be employed in a nine-to-five job.