Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (10 page)

“Who is it?” I called after her, but she was already gone.

It seemed to take forever to reach the other end of that long balcony, and by the time I got there, she was racing down the stone steps toward the swimming pool.

It took only one glance to figure out what had upset her. Someone was floating in the pool, facedown and unmoving. With my heart in my throat, I bolted down the steps. Even in the dim lighting from the tiki torches and twinkling white lights, I recognized who it was:

Big Daddy Boudreaux.

“Call nine-one-one!” Aunt Yolanda shouted as she knelt down beside the water. “I think he’s dead.”

The gentle hum of the pool’s filtration system and the soft lap of water against the sides of the pool were deceptively soothing sounds, especially since my pulse was racing frantically as the reality of the situation sank in.

Ignoring the logic that told me that nobody could breathe in that position, I stepped around a small statue that lay near the pool and plunged down the concrete steps into the water. It was only waist deep, but it dragged heavily on me as I made my way toward him.

Big Daddy bobbed gently on the waves I created. He didn’t stir, but in spite of a massive, bloody wound on the back of his head, I held on to the frantic hope that he might only be injured. “I need your help,” I called to Aunt Yolanda. “We need to turn him over.”

She stayed right where she was, shaking her head sadly. “It’s too late,
mija
.”

“You don’t know that.” My voice came out high-pitched and sharp-edged. “We need to turn him over and check for a pulse.”

“Rita—”

“Please, Aunt Yolanda. We have to at least check.”

Reluctantly, she followed me into the water and together we rolled Big Daddy onto his back. But as his swollen and bruised face emerged from the water, I realized that Aunt Yolanda was right.

Just a little while ago he’d been larger than life. Now Big Daddy Boudreaux stared sightlessly up at the sky, his mouth slightly open and his eyes bulging. In horror, I backed a step away, creating a wave that rolled over him and submerged his face again. An angry wound marred his forehead, probably where he hit his head as he fell in. I didn’t need to check for a pulse. I could tell just by looking.

He was dead.

Eleven

“Okay, Rita. Let’s go over this again. What time did Mr. Boudreaux arrive at the party?”

Two long hours had gone by since I’d placed the 911 call, and I’d told my story in detail at least three times. Half an hour ago, I’d been deposited in one corner of the ballroom and told to wait. Now I was sitting across the table from Detective Liam Sullivan, who apparently wanted me to tell the story again.

Sullivan and I had met last summer, during the investigation into Philippe’s murder. He’s tall, dark-haired, and yes, handsome. I’d fallen a little bit in love with him when he saved my life, though I’d never confessed that to anyone.

I didn’t mind answering his questions, but I wished I could have changed clothes first. My dress was still damp from going into the pool and the wet fabric clung to me like a second skin, chilling me to the bone. I huddled a little deeper into the light blanket Sullivan had asked one of the staff to bring me, and dug around in my fog-filled head for an answer. “I think it was around nine, but I can’t swear to it. And no, I don’t
know
how he ended up in the pool. He was just there.”

I knew I sounded testy, but who wouldn’t under the circumstances? There was a dead body in the swimming pool, and my uncle was missing. My aunt and mother-in-law were being interrogated in other parts of the club, as were the handful of guests and the staff who’d still been there when we sounded the alarm. I was worried about how Aunt Yolanda and Miss Frankie were holding up and starting to feel very concerned about Uncle Nestor, who seemed to have disappeared completely.

On top of all that, I’d been running nonstop for almost twenty-four hours and I’d had a few glasses of wine at the party. Exhaustion and alcohol were seriously impairing my ability to cope.

Sullivan glanced at his notes and ran a look over me. “You told Officer Matos that Mr. Boudreaux was drunk.”

Usually Sullivan’s eyes are a shade of blue so light they’re almost disconcerting. Tonight they were dark and gray, like storm clouds rolling in off the Gulf of Mexico. Plus, he was using his stern-cop voice, which, in spite of the charming Southern drawl, was probably sharp enough to cut diamonds.

“I said that I
thought
he was drunk,” I clarified. “And that it’s possible he stumbled into the pool on his own.”

Sullivan lowered his notebook to the table. “And you believed that?”

I shrugged with my face. “It’s possible.”

“You saw the body,” he said. “That explanation might account for one wound, but Mr. Boudreaux has lacerations on his face, bruising on his temple, swelling on his cheeks, and a serious contusion on the back of his head.”

Just thinking about that awful head wound threatened to activate my gag reflex. “He could have hit his head when he fell in.”

“But he didn’t,” Sullivan said. “I know that just from looking at him, and I’m guessin’ you know it, too.”

“I don’t know anything,” I said stubbornly. I didn’t believe Big Daddy’s death was an accident any more than Sullivan did, but I resented the implication that I might know more than I was telling him. “You don’t know what happened either. Don’t you need a coroner’s report or something?”

Sullivan fixed me with a hard gray stare. “Yeah. Technically. But it’s hard to imagine Mr. Boudreaux going into the pool and hitting both the back of his head and his face on the way down. I’m bettin’ he didn’t get the wound on the back of his head from bouncing off the side of the pool.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying he had help gettin’ that way.”

I pulled the blanket a little tighter and let out a resigned sigh. I thought about the statue at the side of the pool and wondered if someone had used it to send Big Daddy to his reward. I sure didn’t want the man’s death to be deliberate. Neither Miss Frankie nor Zydeco needed to be involved in another murder. Neither did I, and I hated to think of Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor wasting their whole visit talking to the police. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that somebody killed him,” I said. “He wasn’t exactly the nicest guy in the world.”

One of Sullivan’s eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean? Did you have some kind of trouble with him?”

“Me?” I shrugged. “Not really. I only met him for the first time a few hours ago.” It was the perfect time to tell him about Uncle Nestor popping Big Daddy a couple of times, but he hadn’t asked about anyone else having “trouble” with Big Daddy. Someone was sure to tell Sullivan about the fight, but I just couldn’t get the words out. I wasn’t ready to throw Uncle Nestor under the bus. I knew it was irrational, but I hoped they’d find the killer so quickly I wouldn’t have to rat him out.

Sullivan shifted his weight and propped both arms on the table. “Why don’t you define ‘not really’ for me?”

Another chill shook my body and I huddled deeper into the blanket. “He was loud and obnoxious and grabby. A bit too friendly, if you know what I mean.”

“Are you sayin’ he made a pass at you?”

“I guess you could call it that. I’m not sure his heart was in it. It seemed almost like a habit. He saw a woman and he made a grab.”

“And—”

“And nothing. I handled it. He went away and bothered other people. No big deal.”

Sullivan studied my expression for a moment before asking his next question. “Did he bother anyone else in particular?”

I carefully sidestepped the Uncle Nestor factor one more time and stayed focused on the female guests. “Not that I know of. He made the rounds and talked to a lot of people. So you think somebody hit him, and then pushed him into the pool?”

Sullivan didn’t so much as blink. “Something like that. I’m told you found the body. Is that right?”

I gave him a thin-lipped nod and linked my hands on the table. “My aunt Yolanda and I found him.”

“Tell me about that.”

“We were looking for my uncle. The party was over and we were comparing notes about how we felt it had gone—you know how you do…”

He nodded, but didn’t say a word. I took that as a cue to keep talking. “Anyway, we realized that neither of us had seen Uncle Nestor for a while, so we decided to look for him.”

“You went outside to do that? Why not search the clubhouse?”

If it had just been me, I might’ve left out the detail about the cell phone—actually, I’d neglected to even mention it to the first cops, it seemed so unimportant. But then I thought about how Aunt Yolanda was a stickler for the truth and realized that she’d probably spilled her guts to the cop interrogating her. After all, she believed that the truth would set her free. And if my story didn’t match, we could end up in big trouble.

“We were going to,” I explained. “But Aunt Yolanda called his cell phone and heard it ringing outside. She went out onto the balcony and that’s when she spotted Big Daddy in the pool.”

Sullivan’s eyebrow arched high over one slate-colored eye. “I didn’t see any of that in the notes Officer Crump gave me.”

“That’s because I forgot to tell him. I didn’t even think about it. And don’t give me that look. Nestor’s my uncle. He didn’t have anything to do with Big Daddy’s death.”

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted Big Daddy dead?”

“Besides every woman he ever met? Not really.”

“I assume you have a guest list,” he said, refusing to even crack a smile. “I’ll need a copy.”

“Miss Frankie has all of that information. Most of the guests were members of the Krewe of Musterion. This was some sort of a bash for the bigwigs. Apparently, Big Daddy was just elected as captain for the coming year.” Thinking about all of that made me sit up a little straighter. “You know who you should talk to? This guy named Percy something. Ponter, I think they said. He’s one of the officers for next year and he was upset with Big Daddy earlier in the evening.”

Sullivan made a note. “Any idea why?”

I shook my head. “Big Daddy told him to make an appointment for next week, that’s all I know. Big Daddy’s assistant might know, though. She was there. Her name is Violet.” I dug around in my memory and came up with the rest. “Shepherd.”

Sullivan wrote that down, too. “Anything else?”

I ignored my nagging conscience and shook my head again. “No, that’s it.” I’d tell Sullivan about the fight once we found Uncle Nestor and I heard his side of the story. Surely he’d be more forthcoming now.

“When you went outside after the party, did you notice anything out of place in the backyard? Anything unusual? Anything that didn’t belong?”

The quick change of subject caught me off guard, and exhaustion, worry, and fear made it hard to catch up. Disjointed images flashed through my head. Aunt Yolanda hurrying toward the pool. Me following. The twinkling white lights on the shrubbery and trees. A few tiki torches still burning. A few burned out. Chairs askew. That statue on the cement and glasses scattered about. Most of it telltale signs of a big party, but not especially unusual. Certainly nothing sinister.

“There was a statue,” I said after I’d sifted through the details. “On the cement by the pool. Other than that, nothing. I wish I could be more help. It’s all too hazy.”

One corner of Sullivan’s mouth lifted in what passes for a smile when he’s working. “It’s all right,” he said. “I know it’s tough. If you remember anything later, give me a holler.”

I nodded to show how agreeable I could be.

He seemed satisfied and moved on again. “Tell me again about finding Mr. Boudreaux in the pool.”

“Like I said, Aunt Yolanda saw him first. She called for me.”

“Did either of you actually
see
Mr. Boudreaux fall in?”

“No. If we had, we would have helped him.”

I got another eyeball, this one directed at my damp clothing. “Looks like maybe you tried to help him anyway.”

“I thought maybe he was still alive. He wasn’t.” I glanced at the clock on the wall, realized how long we’d been sitting here, and felt my empty stomach turn over. “Could you check with your guys to see if anyone has heard from Uncle Nestor? He’s been gone a long time.”

Sullivan shook his head. “If anyone had heard from him, I’d know it. Let’s just get through the rest of the questions and then I’ll see what I can find myself.” Tough cop faded for a moment and my friend made a brief appearance. “It’ll be okay, Rita.”

I appreciated the gesture, but we both knew he couldn’t make that kind of promise. “And what if it’s not? What if something happened to him? What if—” The words got stuck in my throat and tears burned my eyes. I’d been holding it together so far, but the fear of losing Uncle Nestor made it hard to breathe. I tried to remember the last time I’d actually seen him at the party, but those details were lost, too. “He and Aunt Yolanda are all I have, Liam. He
has
to be all right.”

Sullivan got up from his seat and came around the table. I wish I could tell you that he gathered me in his arms and comforted all my fears, but he’s not that kind of guy. He put a hand on my shoulder and murmured something I couldn’t quite make out. Not nearly enough, but I guess better than nothing.

While I sobbed into my hands, Sullivan crossed the room and plucked a couple of Zydeco napkins from the table. He shoved them at me, and I spent a minute or two mopping up so we could move on again.

When I’d dried the tears and blown my nose, I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to get the air all the way to my core, where the panic had taken up residence. It was making images of Uncle Nestor going after Big Daddy flash through my head, and they were images I did not want to remember.

Not
that I thought Uncle Nestor was responsible for Big Daddy’s untimely demise. But the realization that others might speculate about my uncle made everything inside me hurt.

I wadded the soggy napkins in my hand and glanced at the sequined saxophone archway. “Is it really necessary to drag my aunt off and interrogate her like a common criminal? She doesn’t know anything either. And Miss Frankie shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

Sullivan linked his hands together on the table and locked his eyes on mine. “They’re fine, Rita. Your aunt is being treated with respect, and Miss Frankie is a lot tougher than you give her credit for. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can check on both of them. I assure you my people aren’t roughing them up or shoving bamboo shoots under their fingernails. Now, if you’re ready…”

I sat back in my chair and made an effort to look calm and collected. “Fine. What else do you want to know?”

“How about telling me when you last saw Mr. Boudreaux alive?”

“Maybe an hour before we found him in the pool,” I said.

“Where was he? And what was he doing?”

“He was here, in the ballroom. Near the bandstand, I think. Talking to people.”

“Any idea who he was talking to?”

I shook my head. “Like I said before, I didn’t pay that much attention to him.” At least, I hadn’t after the fight. That had been a couple of hours earlier. He’d had time to annoy a dozen other people since then. “He talked to just about everyone in the room and he seemed to know them all, and of course, everyone knew who he was.” I rubbed my forehead and looked at him from the corner of my eye. “There’s going to be press, isn’t there?”