The Whispering Room (5 page)

As a boy, Ellis had been enthralled by the serpent-handling spectacle that accompanied some of his father's sermons. Ellis hadn't been a true believer back then, but he'd loved watching the snakes. To him, they were among God's most glorious creatures. Even the thick, leathery water moccasins, with their white mouths and razorlike fangs, held a certain fascination.

Along with the rattlers and copperheads, the moccasins had been kept in cages behind the chicken coop at Ellis's home. Once his after-school chores were done, he would head out there and sit in the grass for hours, mesmerized by the sinewy movement of the reptiles as they climbed up the mesh wire of the cages and wrapped themselves around one another.

By this time, Ellis was quite adept at catching the creatures in their natural habitats—underneath rocks and rotting logs and in muddy sloughs—but once they were placed in the cages, he wasn't allowed to handle them. That privilege was reserved for his father and some of the elders of the church.

It was a common misconception that serpent-handlers believed the Holy Spirit would keep them safe. Every last one of them knew the dangers of what they did. Many had lost fingers and limbs as a result of the infection brought on by a bite. One or two had even lost their lives.

It wasn't a matter of faith, Ellis's father had once explained. It was about obeying the word of God.

Ellis's first snakebite had come just after his fifteenth birthday.

He'd found a copperhead sunning on the bank of the creek that ran behind their house. Holding the head so that the snake couldn't strike, he'd lifted the reptile close to his face, admiring the flicker of the serpent's tongue, the dark gleam in the slitted, catlike eyes.

Ellis had become so engrossed in watching the play of sunlight on the glistening scales that he hadn't realized the snake's head had slipped free of his grasp.

The fangs caught him in the side of his neck, and the copperhead hung there for a moment as Ellis's skin started to burn like wildfire.

Afterward, he hurried home, washed the bite with soap and water and kept his mouth shut. He didn't tell anyone about his carelessness or that he'd flown into a rage and killed the poor snake before it could slither away.

A few hours later, he began to feel achy and weak, like he was coming down with the flu. The bite area was swollen and tender, but he told himself he'd be fine. Copperhead venom wasn't nearly as dangerous as the poison from the other pit vipers. Sometimes the bites had no effect at all.

But within days, gangrene set in. His skin around
the afflicted area turned black and felt cold to the touch.

Still, he tried to keep the wound hidden by wearing his collars buttoned, but his science teacher noticed the swelling and discoloration one day and sent him to the school nurse. She took one look and rushed him to the hospital.

What followed was a nightmare scenario of painful surgeries and skin grafts where the dead flesh had to be cut away from the bone.

Convinced he had been bitten as the result of his father's dangerous religious practices, CPS removed Ellis from his home, but rather than placing him in foster care, they sent him to the state hospital for psychiatric evaluation.

It was there, in that place of misery and confusion, that he had finally experienced his religious awakening.

It was there, in a dark and reeking room, that Ellis Cooper had accepted his true calling.

A nurse passing him in the corridor gave him a curious glance. Ellis turned slightly so that she could see the “bad” side of his face. When she caught a glimpse of the scar tissue, she quickly looked away. Then her gaze came back to him, and she smiled in the tentative, flustered way that Ellis was used to.

He turned and watched as she hurried down the
hallway, and when she glanced over her shoulder, the smile he flashed seemed to momentarily stun her.

Ellis gave a low chuckle. That was the cool thing about his appearance. His scarred, pale countenance seemed to attract even as it repelled.

Today he had on a black suit that was perfectly tailored to his thin frame. He cut a striking figure and he knew it. He was only thirty-seven, but he'd started to go gray during his incarceration in the mental hospital. By the time he was released, his hair had been as white as snow, which he took as an outward sign of his spiritual metamorphosis.

He'd worn his hair natural for a long time, but these days, he'd taken to dyeing it black, and he liked to slick back the glossy strands from his high forehead in the manner of an old-timey preacher.

But his hair and even the scar played second fiddle to his eyes. They were by far his most prominent feature. So dark a brown they were almost black, but in the center radiated the heat and fury of a fire-and-brimstone zealot.

Ellis didn't think of himself that way, though. He considered himself a soldier and sometimes a prophet.

Turning his attention back to the glass panel, he lifted the origami crane he'd found in Mary Alice's room and watched her over the graceful curve of the paper head.

She stared back without blinking. Her eyes were clear and blue and mesmerizing in their intensity.

And Ellis thought, almost in awe,
She knows.

It was almost as if Mary Alice Lemay could peer straight down into his soul.

T
he day was still, hot and hazy as Evangeline and Mitchell drove into the Garden District.

The streets in this glorious old neighborhood were lined with the gnarled branches of live oaks, and the lush, vivid yards—heavily painted with crepe myrtle, oleander and flaming hibiscus—provided a striking contrast to the gleaming white houses.

Underneath second-story verandas, ceiling fans rotated in the sluggish heat. Children played in the lawn sprinklers while gardeners dripping with sweat clipped hedges and weeded flower beds thick with petunias and geraniums.

This was a neighborhood steeped in history and quiet refinement; a lifestyle of summer garden parties, servants and drinks by the pool.

A world very different from the one Evangeline knew.

After leaving the crime scene earlier, she'd showered and changed her clothes, but the scent of Paul Courtland's rotting flesh still clogged her nostrils as she pulled the car to the curb in front of his house.

She leaned her arms against the steering wheel and stared out the window at the house, dreading the moment when she would have to climb out of the car, walk up to the house and ring the bell.

Mrs. Courtland? I'm afraid I have some bad news for you.

Evie? I hate like hell to be the one to have to tell you this.

“Evie?”

For a moment, Mitchell's voice seemed so much a part of her memory, Evangeline forgot he was in the car with her. She turned and glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“You ready to do this?”

“Can I just go have a root canal instead? Or maybe get some surgery done without anesthesia?”

“'Fraid not. Comes with the territory. Could be worse, though,” he added, and Evangeline knew that he was thinking about the night Johnny died, too.

Silently, they got out of the car and started up the walkway together.

The Courtland home was a three-story Greek revival with wide Doric columns in the front and a walled garden in the back. Baskets of trailing ferns
hung from the balconies, and the carefully tended flower beds exploded with color.

The sound of splashing water and laughter drifted over the garden walls, and as Evangeline walked up the front steps, she heard a child singing in the back, a happy, inane tune that tugged at her heart and made her wish she was anywhere in the world but where she was—standing at a dead man's front door.

A middle-aged woman with short gray hair answered the door straightaway. She wore brown slacks and a blue, nondescript top that she tugged down over her rounded hips. “Yes?”

“We're NOPD,” Mitchell said as he hauled out his wallet and showed her his ID. “Are you Mrs. Courtland? Mrs. Paul Courtland?”

“No, I'm the Courtlands' nanny.” Her hazel eyes flickered with uncertainty. “Is there some trouble, Officer?”

“It's Detective. And, yes, I'm afraid there's been some trouble. Is Mrs. Courtland home?”

“She's out by the pool with her daughter. Hold on a second and I'll get her for you.”

Instead of inviting them in, she closed the door in their faces.

Mitchell gave a nonchalant shrug. “Lots of riffraff in the city these days. Can't be too careful.”

“You do look a bit dodgy. Where'd you get that shirt?”

“Salvation Army,” he said. “A buck twenty-five.”

They waited in silence until the door was drawn back again a few minutes later. The woman who stood on the other side this time was a thirtysomething blonde wearing a green-and-gold bikini top with a matching sarong fastened at the top of one hip. She was tan and lean with the kind of soft beauty and quiet elegance women of her social station seemed to acquire naturally.

Her full lips glinted with pale peach lip gloss and when she propped a hand on the door, Evangeline saw the same shade of shimmer on her nails.
Fine-tuned
was the first description that came to mind.
Pampered
was the second.

“I'm Meredith Courtland,” she said as her cool gaze skipped from Evangeline to Mitchell and then darted past them to the unmarked car at the curb. “How may I help you?”

“I'm Detective Hebert, this is my partner, Detective Theroux.” They both presented their IDs. “Ma'am, I'm afraid we have some bad news for you.”

“Bad news?” She stared at them blankly, as if such a concept were unheard of in her comfortable, insulated world. “Is this about the accident?”

Mitchell glanced at Evangeline. “What accident would that be, ma'am?”

“The fender bender I had in the Quarter yesterday. I left all my information with the other driver, and I've already contacted my insurance company. I don't
know why he felt the need to get the police involved.” She looked mildly annoyed as she ran her manicured nails through the precisely clipped strands of her blond bob.

“We're not here about a car accident,” Evangeline said. “This is regarding your husband.”

“Paul? What about him?” She must have glimpsed something in their faces then because her annoyance vanished, and for a moment, her blue eyes looked as if they were drowning. “Is he…” She drew a quick breath and seemed to dismiss the possibility of any real unpleasantness. “He's all right, isn't he?”

“No, ma'am, he's not.” Evangeline tried to keep her voice neutral, without letting the pity she felt for the woman creep in. “If it's okay, we'd like to come in and talk to you for a few minutes.”

For the longest time, Meredith Courtland didn't say a word, just stood there clutching the door while, in spite of her best efforts to cling to denial, her world started to crumble around her.

Evangeline's heart ached for her. She knew only too well what it was like to be on the other side of that door. To feel so overwhelmed by the news that you forgot how to breathe. You could hear someone talking to you. You could even make out their words. But what they said made no sense. Nothing made sense. How could the husband you'd kissed goodbye that morning, the man you loved more than life itself, be dead?

How, all of a sudden, could the life you'd shared with him be nothing more than a memory?

Evangeline could feel the burn in her eyes of a thousand unshed tears and she had to glance away for a moment. Sometimes even now a future without Johnny seemed too much to bear.

Meredith Courtland stepped back from the door. “Please come in,” she said shakily.

They stepped into a cool, terrazzo entryway with gilded mirrors and tall vases of pink and white roses. Sunshine spilled in from a domed skylight and dazzled the crystals of a huge chandelier. A floating staircase swept gracefully up to a second-story gallery, where a black maid temporarily appeared at the railing before vanishing back into the shadows.

Meredith Courtland's gold sandals clicked against the marble floor as she led them down a wide hallway that opened into a large living area decorated with an eclectic mix of modern and antique furnishings.

A wall of French doors opened into the garden, a sun-dappled paradise of banana trees, palms and scarlet bougainvillea cascading over the stucco walls. Just beyond a white gazebo, Evangeline could see the sparkle of turquoise water in a kidney-shaped pool.

Indeed, a world very different from her own.

A little girl in a blue polka-dot swimsuit sat on
the floor in front of the windows. She had a feather duster in one hand that she used to tease a tiny black-and-white kitten. When the adults entered the room, the child tossed aside the duster and got to her feet.

“Hello,” she said, with a smile that showcased a perfectly matched set of dimples. She looked to be about four, with gold ringlets and tanned, chubby little legs. “Do you want to see my kitten?” She picked up the tiny cat and clutched it to her chest. “His name is Domino.”

“That's a good name for a black-and-white kitten,” Evangeline said, captivated by the little girl's charm.

“Daddy wanted me to name him Bandit, on account of his mask. See?” She held up the kitten so they could admire the black markings on his face. “I like Domino better. Daddy's just an old silly billy anyway. Right, Mama?”

Meredith Courtland stared at her daughter in stricken silence. When the nanny appeared in the doorway, she said on a quivering breath, “Colette, would you please take Maisie back out to the pool? I'll join you in a few minutes.”

“Can Domino come, too, Mama? Please? Pretty please with sugar on top,” the little girl pleaded.

Meredith Courtland pressed a hand to her breast. “No, sweetie, cats don't like the water. Domino can stay in the kitchen while you swim.”

“Can I give him a treat?”

“Just one.”

The child grinned impishly at Evangeline as she skipped out of the room behind the nanny.

“Please, have a seat,” Meredith said, indicating a white sofa behind a mahogany coffee table inlaid with chips of colored glass. As she sat down in a chair opposite the sofa, the gossamer fabric of the sarong floated gracefully around her slim legs.

Her posture was very straight, the lines of her face carefully composed. Except for the tears glistening on her lashes, Meredith Courtland looked rigid and emotionless.

She doesn't dare let herself feel anything, Evangeline thought. Not yet. Not until she's alone. And then the pleasant ennui of her once-cosseted existence would pass into memory with the dawning of a stark, cold reality.

She would awaken in the morning, mind swept clean by sleep, and turn, see the empty side of the bed and it would hit her again, that terrible sense of loss. That bottomless pit of despair.

“Paul's dead, isn't he?” Her voice was flat with acceptance, but there was a glimmer of something that might have been hope in her eyes.

Evangeline dashed that hope with one word. “Yes.”

Her eyes fluttered closed. “When?”

“His body was found this morning in an abandoned house in the Lower Ninth Ward. We think he'd been dead for a few days.”

“
A few days?
Dear God…” Meredith Courtland's neck muscles jumped convulsively as she swallowed. “How did it happen?”

“We won't know the exact cause of death until after the autopsy. But we have reason to believe your husband was the victim of foul play.”

She gave a visible start. “You're saying…he was
murdered?
”

“I'm very sorry,” Evangeline said softly.

“But…” Her expression went blank again. “That's not possible. It's just not.”

Murder happened to other people.

“Is there someone you'd like us to call? Family or friends you'd like to have come and stay with you right now?” Evangeline asked.

“Stay with me? I don't know….” She couldn't seem to form a clear thought. She skimmed her fingers down one arm. “Colette and my daughter are here….” She closed her eyes briefly. “Oh, God. How am I going to tell Maisie? She adores Paul….”

Her voice cracked and her bottom lip trembled as she lost the struggle for self-control. “God,” she whispered on a sob and put her hands to her face as if she could somehow forcibly stem the tide of raw emotion that bubbled up her throat and spilled over from her eyes.

Evangeline fumbled for a tissue in her purse and handed it across the coffee table to the crying woman. Meredith Courtland took it gratefully and
after a moment, she dabbed at her eyes as she turned to look out the French doors at her daughter.

In the ensuing silence, every sound in the house seemed magnified. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the foyer. The soft humming of the maid upstairs.

And into that awful silence came the high-pitched laughter of Paul Courtland's little girl as she splashed happily in the shallow end of the pool.

Meredith drew a deep, shuddering breath and folded the tissue into a neat little square on one thigh. But her eyes never left her child.

“I wondered if something was wrong when he didn't come by for Maisie on Sunday,” she finally said. “They always spend the afternoon together, and he never missed a single Sunday.
Never.
He loved being with her. He was a wonderful father.” She paused to unfold the tissue as painstakingly as she had creased it. “A lousy husband, but a great father.”

Evangeline and Mitchell shared a look.

“You and Mr. Courtland were divorced, then?” Mitchell asked carefully.

“Separated. He moved out a few months ago. He has a place in the Warehouse District. A
loft.
” Her head was still turned away, but there was no mistaking the bitter, derisive edge to her tone. She may as well have informed them he'd moved into a whorehouse for all the scorn that dripped from her voice.
“I guess the Garden District just wasn't a cool or hip enough address for him anymore.”

Evangeline and Mitchell exchanged another glance. Mitchell's nod was almost imperceptible.