April Fools Read online

  “Things will work out,” Melanie said matter-of-factly.

  With our payment transactions completed, we left the restaurant and made our way through the rain to our respective cars.

  “Don’t forget, I’m picking you up at seven,” Melanie called out.

  I waved as enthusiastic an acknowledgement as I could muster. Tossing my wet umbrella into the back seat of my four-year-old Chevy Cavalier, I slipped into the driver’s seat and watched my cousin drive away in her sleek new Porsche.

  My thoughts turned to Anne as I drove down St. Charles with the rain pounding on the windshield and the streetcar clanging in my ears from the tracks in the neutral ground.

  My belief in Steven’s innocence naturally stemmed from our history. We were bonded together at birth. Until our preteen years he was my best friend. In my childish imagination he could do no wrong. Maybe it was time for my opinion of him to become more adult and realistic. He’d caused Anne enough heartache. Surely she knew all along about his bedroom escapades. She wasn’t a stupid woman. Dumb, maybe, to keep him around for so long, but definitely not stupid.

  The moment I pulled up in front of my house, I remembered Melanie’s statement about another woman. The image of a particular snapshot in my extensive photo collection popped into my head.

  Two

  “Here it is,” I shouted, waving the photo. Success at last. There must have been at least two hundred pictures in the box.

  Frightened by the outburst, Katy, my longhaired cat, leaped off the chair and squeezed her plump little body under the bed. Several ginger-colored hairs floated in her wake.

  The photograph in question was snapped at a party during Mardi Gras season at the home of John and Mary Catherine Durand, the couple from the restaurant. The festivities took place several months prior to Anne’s murder.

  In the snapshot Steven was part of a group of four people, the only male. Anne, with an angry look on her face, stared straight at the camera, while Melanie shot daggers at Steven with her eyes. He seemed unaware of the negative vibrations around him as he gazed down on Mary Catherine’s upturned face.

  What had Melanie suggested? One of Steven’s women helped him murder Anne? No, it’s too farfetched. I looked again at the adoring gaze Mary Catherine turned on him. Maybe a woman’s involvement wasn’t such a crazy idea after all. She could have been the killer without any participation from Steven.

  I pulled my cell out of my purse and started to make a call. Darn it, that’s the wrong phone. Several weeks ago I purchased a new phone online, but left the old one in my purse with plans to drop it off at one of the recycling places specifically for used cell phones and other electronics. The problem was I kept forgetting to get rid of the device. I retrieved the correct one from my purse and punched in Jim’s number. To my surprise, the call didn’t go to voicemail which it did many times while he was on duty. If this had been an emergency and he didn’t answer, I would call back with our signal number of rings.

  As soon as he answered, I blurted out my questions. “When you were investigating Anne’s murder, did you ever suspect the murderer to be a woman? Or that Steven had a female accomplice?”

  “No, hello darling, how’s your day going?”

  His voice sounded a bit on the surly side. I figured his day hadn’t been great, and he confirmed my suspicions without any prompting from me. He reeled off a list of calls he and the other detectives had been on today.

  “Two homicides, both before noon. A bunch of little scumbags shot a lost Japanese tourist. The poor guy took a wrong turn and ended up in a bad neighborhood. Fourteen and fifteen year olds with guns. It’s sick.”

  “How horrible. They’re just children. I can’t imagine using a weapon to kill at their age or any age for that matter. And I’ll bet the tourism industry has gone into meltdown because they might lose money.”

  “You’d win that bet hands down. Then I caught the second call about a cab driver robbed and beaten to death near the Jazz Street project.” He referred to one of the city’s abandoned housing projects uninhabited since damaged by Hurricane Katrina. “Most likely the subject planned to rob the cabbie, knowing the place was abandoned, but something went wrong and he ended up committing murder. And for what? He got away with forty dollars.”

  Considering how rarely he mentioned the violent elements of police work to me, I figured he’d experienced an extremely bad day. Today appeared to be one of those days when he might have been convinced the whole world had gone crazy.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get on my high horse about the state of the city,” he said.

  I felt guilty about continuing to bombard him with my questions, but once I get an idea in my head I’m like a dog with a bone and can’t let it go. So I said a lot of soothing words in response. After he’d settled down enough, I repeated my questions.

  “Do you have a motive for bringing this up after all these years?” His surliness returned along with suspicion. “Other than the fact you know we might reopen the case?”

  I told him about my conversation with Melanie and her theory concerning another woman in Steven’s life.

  “Only one?” he asked with derision “Word is he had quite a few.”

  “But any one in particular who might have been involved?” I persisted, ignoring his sarcasm.

  He didn’t answer right away. I wondered if he would answer at all.

  “There was one woman we considered as a suspect for a while,” he said finally. Another long pause ensued. “Look, I know you’ve always doubted Steven’s guilt, but everything checked out with her.”

  “Who was she?” He probably didn’t intend to reveal the woman’s identity.

  “You know damn well I’m not going to tell you,” he said. “All the info on the case is on a need-to-know basis only and you don’t need to know.”

  His opinion of need-to-know differed a great deal from mine. “I want to know what happened to Anne and to prove Steven didn’t kill her.”

  “Then let the department handle the case. You’ll find out when we figure it out. Do you honestly want to dredge up the trauma of your experience again?”

  “The image never goes away. I wouldn’t be dredging it up from anywhere.”

  “You’re not qualified to investigate on your own. For one thing, you don’t know all the facts.”

  “I know the bullets taken from Anne’s body at the autopsy were the same caliber used in a weapon belonging to Steven, but you never found the weapon. He said someone stole the gun and filed a report way before the murder.”

  “That’s a real convenient and very popular story, even if he did file a stolen property report. You hide the weapon and say it’s been stolen. We hear it a lot, although most scumbags don’t bother with the report. I’m not going to discuss this anymore. For you this case is closed, Nancy Drew.”

  “I resent being referred to as a little girl detective,” I said with mock indignation.

  He laughed. “Just kidding.”

  “No you weren’t, Dick Tracy,” I shot back, sensing his attempt to lure me away from the idea the cops were looking at the wrong suspect, heaven forbid. For now I decided to drop the subject.

  “You think because you got a murder mystery published in a magazine, you’re ready to solve murders like the woman on Murder She Wrote.”

  I heard the tension in his voice fade as we joked back and forth. “But I’m not nearly so old,” I continued the banter. “Surely you can think of another female detective who is older than Nancy and younger than Jessica. What about Jamie Carson?” She’s the female protagonist in my story, an amateur detective.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “Jamie Carson, mystery solver extraordinaire.” His tone turned serious and he moved the conversation to a whole other realm. “Remember what we discussed last night?”

  “Yes.” I dragged out the word, knowing he intended to end our enjoyable repartee. “Your job offer.”

  “Have you given it any thought?”

&
nbsp; “A little,” I hedged, not wanting to go there. A long silence followed. “Jim, this would be a big step for me. Keep in mind; I’m a big city girl.”

  “Just think about it, will you?”

  “Okay, I will. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a party at Amanda Williamson’s house. Melanie’s picking me up around seven, so I’ll probably be gone by the time you get home.”

  “Stay out of trouble,” he warned right before we hung up. “And think about our discussion last night.”

  The conversation in question concerned a job offer he received from a childhood friend in a small town about fifty miles southwest of here in neighboring Allemand Parish.

  Unlike me, Jim didn’t grow up in New Orleans. The excitement of the big city lured him here as an adventurous nineteen-year-old. He came in search of all the things he believed were missing from his small town upbringing.

  After fifteen years, police work jaded him so much he no longer shared my love of the French Quarter and its romantic history, the elegant homes along St. Charles Avenue, or an early morning mist shrouding the majestic oak trees in City Park. He saw the Crescent City as a tarnished lady.

  My fantasy view of the lady dimmed a bit after Anne’s murder, but I still considered the city to be Queen New Orleans. At the moment…nothing could make me leave this place. I was addicted to the heady perfume and the spicy blend of the city’s unique cultures.

  Jim’s discontent also stemmed from the endless scandals afflicting the New Orleans Police Department. He wanted to distance himself from all the tribulations of an organization on the verge of its own personal Armageddon.

  I wholeheartedly agreed with his decision to leave NOPD, but the idea of moving to the middle of nowhere made me shudder. Unfortunately I knew he wouldn’t consider another line of work, so I had to think about the effect staying here would have on my husband and my marriage. I also knew Jim already made up his mind to accept the job.

  A town of fifteen thousand people couldn’t possibly have much crime. As Chief of Police of Cypress Lake, his job would be a breeze. His friend, the newly elected mayor, gave him the same spiel. “Why, there hasn’t been a murder here in five years.” What a bunch of bull!

  The mention of murder steered my mind back to Anne, and consequently to Steven and his relationship with Mary Catherine Durand. I wondered if today’s date had anything to do with the tense words I’d overheard in the booth at Garden House. Maybe M.C. had an attack of conscience about her part in the crime. Or I could have an overactive imagination.

  I decided to refresh my memory by rereading all the newspaper articles about the murder. Some I had clipped out and saved, but the rest I’d have to view on microfilm. A trip to the New Orleans Public Library would have to wait for another day. Plenty of time remained this afternoon for me to go over the clippings I’d saved and tucked away in a metal box in my bedroom closet. So much for working on my novel.

  Sunlight streamed through the glass panes of the French doors, casting golden shapes on the varnished wood floors. I stared at the light and tried to gather my thoughts.

  Recently I seemed to have developed a split personality. Earlier I figured nothing could tear me away from the city. After considering Jim’s stories about crime in the city and the reminders of Anne’s murder, I suddenly wanted to distance myself from New Orleans.

  The fact remained; I couldn’t quite sever my lifeline from the past, the debutante cotillions, the Carnival balls, and all the trappings of a rich girl from New Orleans. I’d tried before, but it simply didn’t work.

  Although I’d never been completely comfortable at those affairs, the romantic notion of all the events prevented me from breaking away. Guilt about the statement I threw at Melanie about how I had evolved made me cringe. Those words weren’t exactly true. My storybook vision of the city blocked my evolution, at least partially. An umbilical cord seemed to hold me in place here.

  Shame on me for being rude to Melanie. She played an important part in my past, but the views on life I shared readily with her and Anne in my teens and early twenties now seemed twisted. Melanie and the other former debs still maintained the same attitude about life and their place in New Orleans society. In their way of thinking they were above anyone who didn’t belong to the privileged group and those who didn’t follow their set of ideals. Her constant accusations about Steven made me angry. I assumed she would be more supportive of him since they were related. I guess blood isn’t always thicker than water.

  On the way to the closet to retrieve the box of newspaper clippings, I wondered if I might be getting in over my head. I argued with myself. Even if my brother’s adulterous escapades may have led to Anne’s death, I just couldn’t believe he had any actual involvement in her murder. It’s true what the experts say—twins share a special bond. I had to prove his innocence, a challenging endeavor at best. His past actions didn’t exactly make him look like an innocent man or create any sympathy for him from the public.

  Since Anne’s death he’d gradually cut himself off from family and friends. Every time I phoned him, the call went to voice mail. Recently I ran into him at a nearby market. The downgrade in his physical appearance came as a shock. He appeared thin and gaunt, unshaven, and wearing clothes that looked like they hadn’t been washed in weeks.

  Jim’s response to my description of Steven was predictable. “He’s suffering from a guilty conscience.”

  My comeback, “Do all cops have tunnel vision?”

  Steven probably did have a guilty conscience, not for murder, but for his infidelities. His condition involved more than culpability. He still hurt and grieved after ten years. The only person in town who believed he didn’t kill Anne seemed to be me. On the other hand, who could blame people for believing in his guilt? Once the dirty laundry about his numerous affairs became public, no one in the world could believe otherwise. Except me, of course.

  I brought the box of articles back to my bed and removed the lid. The first clipping out of the box came from the front page of the Picayune displaying Anne’s picture. Seeing her face heightened my need to find out the truth about the murder. The memories of our last conversation that night on her front porch flooded back to me.

  “Are you going to be alright?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, I’ll be fine. I should be used to this by now.” Anne wiped her wet cheek with her hand. “Steven will be home in a couple of hours and he’ll apologize for missing the party.” She placed her hand on my arm. “Sorry. I know he’s your brother, but…”

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

  A little voice inside my head kept repeating over and over. Take the plunge. Take the plunge.

  Three

  The sight of the Williamsons’ beautifully restored Creole townhouse filled my head with fairy tale visions of dark-haired ladies in filmy empire-style gowns. In my mind they stepped from their fancy carriages, aided by a uniformed footman and were followed by their gentlemen escorts, top hats and all.

  One of the drawbacks of being the girl-half in a set of twins is spending time alone, which meant more occasions to allow my fantasies to run wild. Oh, I enjoyed the company of my cousins and Steven during our younger years, but after a certain age my brother wanted to do guy things. He didn’t want me tagging along, so on many days I spent time alone and to be perfectly honest, I rather enjoyed the privacy and could write my stories.

  During those solitary hours, my active imagination formulated a dreamy view of New Orleans. I carried it with me all the way through childhood, and probably way too far into adulthood. Anne’s murder shattered my image. A few years went by before I could reformulate the vision, especially with the pall of suspicion hanging over my brother. Now, as I followed Melanie through the door into the house, a strange feeling overcame me. Intuition told me my romantic view of the Crescent City would soon be smashed again.

  Our hostess, Amanda Williamson, greeted us wearing a shor
t red strapless dress which complimented her dark brown hair and hazel eyes. Her petite diamond earrings and pendent, while tasteful, seemed a little too cocktail-ish for me. Yikes! I’m as bad as the other women. I’ve been away from these affairs for a while, but I should have known everyone would be trying to outdo the others.

  Amanda gave Melanie a fake embrace, the kind a losing beauty pageant contestant gives the winner. A smile through clenched teeth, the voice saying out loud; I’m so happy for you, but silently accusing, you must have slept with the judges.

  She awarded me the same feigned greeting, which I happily returned in kind. Now I remember why I didn’t particularly enjoy these reunions.

  “What a wonderful dress, Susan.” Her mouth curved into a sneer. “The color matches your eyes perfectly.”

  “Thank you,” I said, seething. Amanda believed once you married beneath your station—her perception of my marriage to Jim—you immediately lost the ability and the means to choose flattering and stylish clothes and hair styles. My eyes are hazel with a lot of brown; this dress is sea foam green. “You must be looking at the agate pendant I’m wearing. It does match my eyes.”

  Her smile froze in place. “Come on, let’s join the others.”

  Melanie and I followed her down the hall past a curving staircase made of rich dark wood. Female voices and laughter flowed toward us from the back of the house. Familiar faces and smiles greeted us as we entered the loggia, a lovely covered gallery, now glassed in to keep the heat and the mosquitoes out.

  Beyond the glass, insects flitted around gaslights in the courtyard garden, and the leaves of tall banana plants swayed in a light breeze. Scarlet amaryllis lilies edged the walkway, standing in formation like tiny red-coated soldiers.

  Melanie hovered around Amanda, discussing the latest fashion trends and who was divorcing whom. Not interested in their gossip, I walked over to greet Lisa Olivier, a member of our group we didn’t see often. Her natural red hair made her a true individual among all these salon treated coifs—mostly blond—in the room. Of course, my mousey brown tresses probably made me stand out as well. At any rate, I was pleasantly surprised to see Lisa here.