Who Dat Whodunnit (9 page)

“That’s terrible,” Mom said, a grim look on her face as she changed the channel. “You know, I don’t believe anyone should be killed because of what they believe, but I’m not sorry that woman is dead. You reap what you sow, as her Bible says.”

“Mom!” I said, my mind reeling. Tara’s murdered, and now this woman?

“What? She was a homophobic bitch helping spread hate,” Mom replied. “It always amazes me how so-called Christians have absolutely no clue what their religion is about. Have they never read the Sermon on the Mount? They almost make me
want
to believe in their stupid religion—because it’s so comforting to think they’re all going to burn in hell for eternity.”

“And those megachurches are the worst,” Dad said from behind me. He rubbed the top of my head. “Bilking people out of their money and promising salvation in return. What are you doing here so early, son?”

I tried not to smile. Mom and Dad firmly believed no one should get up before noon. It was actually rather surprising they were up so early. I took a deep breath. Might as well get right to it. “Mom, when was the last time you saw your gun?”

“The Glock?” Mom looked completely bewildered. She looked at Dad, who was equally puzzled. “We went to the shooting range Sunday afternoon, right? Before the playoff party—we were too tense and needed to blow off steam.” She laughed. “It’s amazing how much pretending you’re shooting Brett Favre can improve your aim.”

“It really does, son,” Dad added.

“I’ll have to remember that the next time I go shooting,” I said, unable to stop myself from smiling. I was also unable to resist asking, “Are you going to pretend you’re shooting Peyton Manning the day of the Super Bowl?”

“Of course not!” Mom looked appalled. “Peyton’s from
New Orleans
!”

“What was I thinking?” I rolled my eyes. “So that was the last time you saw the Glock?”

“Why are you asking about my gun?” Mom got up and walked into the kitchen. She opened the junk drawer and pulled out her gun case. She frowned. “That’s weird—it feels light,” she said as she opened it.

Her jaw dropped and she turned, holding the little case open.

It was empty.

She swallowed. “I—I don’t understand. Where is it? I remember distinctly putting it back in the case at the range, and putting it back in the chest when we got home Sunday. Didn’t I, John?”

Dad nodded. “I distinctly remember you putting it back when we got home.”

“Someone stole my gun. I can’t believe it.” She sank back down into her chair. “Scotty, what’s going on? How did you know my gun was gone?”

I filled them both in on Jared’s visit earlier that morning. Their eyes got wider and their faces whiter as I talked. Finally, I finished. “How late was Father Dan here?”

Mom looked at Dad, who said, “Father Dan was the last to leave—around seven, wasn’t it?”

Mom nodded. “The sun was up, I remember when he went out the back door. After you kids left, we started planning the protest.”

I wasn’t even aware I’d been holding my breath. “Well, Jared says he got to her place around eight this morning, so that should put you both in the clear.” I grinned. “And what better alibi witness than a priest?”

“That doesn’t change the fact that my gun killed someone,” Mom replied, rubbing her forehead. “I feel responsible.”

“You’re not responsible, Mom,” I said as Dad sat on the arm of her chair and put his arm around her.

“Yes, I am!” she snapped. “I have
always
believed gun ownership is a responsibility.” She shook her head. “I’ve been meaning to replace the lock on the chest and just never got around to it. If I had, that horrible woman would still be alive.” She paused. “At least it was someone like her and not a kid or something.”

I’d opened my mouth to tell her to stop beating herself up about it, but the words died in my throat. “Mom—until the killer’s behind bars, it’s probably not a good idea to act glad Tara’s dead.”

“I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry, any more than I’ll pretend to be sorry that awful Marina Werner is dead.” She set her jaw. “That would be hypocritical.”

“Marina Werner’s dead?” Dad asked.

I nodded. “It was just on the news. Someone killed her yesterday morning.”

“Not a good time to be a hypocritical Bible-thumping homophobic bigot,” Mom remarked. “I’d be worried if I were Peggy MacGillicudy.”

“Maybe they’re connected,” Dad mused. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Marina was one of the organizers of the rally, and Tara was the main speaker. And they’re both killed in a short period of time.”

“So, who at the party on Sunday night would have wanted them both dead?” Mom scratched her head. “Besides you and I, John?”

“Father Dan—but I just can’t see Dan killing anyone, can you?”

“No, I can’t. I suppose any of the gays and lesbians would have a motive—”

“Okay, enough—granted, it’s all interesting—we’re getting off track here. We don’t know for a fact the two murders are connected.” I steered the conversation back to the gun. “What we need to do is figure out who could have taken the gun between when you got back from the shooting range Sunday afternoon and eleven p.m. last night,” I said, shaking my head a little bit. “Obviously, everyone who was at the party Sunday night could have taken it.” I walked into the kitchen and got the small spiral notebook Mom used to make grocery lists.

I flipped it open and wrote down our names and Frank’s. “We’re going to need to give the police a list anyway, so we might as well be ahead of the game,” I explained as I kept writing names:
Father Dan
,
Dominique DuPre
,
Emily Hunter
,
Lurleen Rutledge
,
David Williams
,
Jesse Santana,
and stopped. I closed my eyes, remembering.

There had been other people here that night—people I hadn’t really known.

I tossed the notebook and pen to my parents. “Those are the only people here I knew.”

None of whom
,
I added to myself,
had any connection whatsoever to Tara Bourgeois.

At least none that I know of at the moment
,
I added.

Mom scribbled down some names. “That’s everyone who was here Sunday night.”

“Who was here in the apartment yesterday?”

“Just us,” Dad replied. “Until after the dinner party.”

“Where I punched Tara Bourgeois in the nose,” Mom went on. She moaned. “Thank the universe we invited everyone over last night! After that—and it was my gun—” She closed her eyes and shuddered.

“It would look pretty bad, Mom—that’s what I’ve been saying.” I commiserated, glad the seriousness was finally sinking it. “If Jared hadn’t gone back over there this morning—”

“My goose would have been cooked.” Mom shuddered again. “Time of death isn’t an exact science…there’s always a window.”

“What?” I glanced at her. “How do you know that?”

“
Forensics for Dummies
,”
she replied with a shrug. “I ordered a copy from Garden District Books after”—she hesitated—“after the mess with Colin at Mardi Gras.”

“
Forensics for Dummies
,”
I repeated, trying not to smile.

Dad tossed me the notebook back. I looked at the list of names Mom had written down.
Mike Mueller. Gary Musson. Ken Taylor. Gia Romano. Jamie Oliver. Cara White.
“I don’t know any of these people,” I said.

“Mike, Gary, and Gia are in Emily’s band,” Mom said helpfully. “Mike’s lead guitar, Gia’s bass, and Gary is the drummer. Ken is Gary’s boyfriend. Jamie’s a student at UNO we were hoping would hit it off with Emily.”

“So, Jamie’s a girl.” I made a mental note. “And who’s Cara White?”

“Lurleen’s assistant.” Dad replied. “We didn’t know Lurleen was bringing her, but we didn’t mind. She’s a nice girl.”

I closed my eyes and tried to put names with the faces. Ken and Gary were easy—they’d kissed every time the Saints scored. Cara was obviously the quiet young woman who’d stuck close to Lurleen all night.

Unfortunately, I’d been tense all afternoon like everyone else in New Orleans, so Frank and I had started smoking pot around two. We’d been totally stoned out of our minds by the time we got to Mom and Dad’s.

Note to self: stop smoking so much pot.

I sighed and made a copy of the list, tearing it off and sticking it my pocket. “Who would have had the chance to take the gun?”

Mom and Dad looked at each other. “Anyone could have, really,” Mom said with a helpless shrug. “Everyone’s eyes were glued to the television. I wasn’t really paying any attention to what anyone else was doing.”

“And when Hartley made the field goal the whole place went crazy, remember?” Dad went on. “We were all screaming and yelling and hugging and jumping up and down. Some people ran out onto the balcony—”

“Frank and I ran down the back stairs and danced in the street,” I said, an involuntary smile creeping across my face. “It was chaos—and we left the gate open.”

“We were all out on the balcony,” Dad remembered. “For at least an hour after the game. We were all out screaming and yelling and cheering.”

“And anyone could have gone back inside and taken the gun.” I closed my eyes, picturing the chaos in the Quarter that night, the joy and exhilaration.

How could someone have thought to steal Mom’s gun in the midst of all that emotion? The whole city had been celebrating. The streets of the Quarter were more crowded that night than they had been on any Fat Tuesday I could remember.

It didn’t make sense to me—but I’d been caught up in the emotion of the moment.

Frank and I had even danced on the hood of a police car at some point during the celebration—a celebration that had lasted until the sun came up.

It had been chaos—and not just in the Quarter. The whole city had partied all night long, every neighborhood. At some point, Frank and I had been in a second line weaving through the mobs of people on Bourbon Street. Horns had blared, bands had played, strangers hugged and kissed.

I couldn’t even begin to remember all the people I’d kissed.

The whole night still didn’t seem real.

But someone hadn’t cared about the Saints going to the Super Bowl as much as they had about getting Mom’s gun.

“Someone came here that night intending to take the gun and use it.” I opened my eyes, focusing on my parents. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Someone at our party,” Mom said after a moment, her voice grim, “is a murderer.”

The Hierophant

The need for acceptance by one’s peer group

I took the inside staircase from Mom and Dad’s down to their combination coffee / tobacco shop, the Devil’s Weed.

When I was a little kid, I used to love the inside staircase. The door to it was in the hallway of the apartment leading back to the bedrooms, and looked like a closet door. At the foot of the staircase was a door leading into the storage room of the shop—but there wasn’t a knob or anything on the storage-room side. In fact, looking at the wall you wouldn’t know there was a door there at all. There was a wall sconce directly just to the left. If you turned the sconce to the right the door popped open. Mom and Dad loved it because if someone ever broke into the shop they wouldn’t know how to get upstairs—but they always locked the upstairs door anyway. I loved it because it was like a secret passageway in a creepy old black-and-white movie from the 1930s. Nothing gave me greater delight than to climb up on a chair in the store room and turn the sconce.

Now I hardly ever used it—I always took the back stairs.

I turned the knob on the door and pushed it open. The storeroom’s lights weren’t on, but there was plenty of light coming in from the open door to the store. I could hear the espresso machine running—Emily must have a customer.

My phone started ringing—my ringtone was Lady Gaga’s “Telephone”—and I looked at the screen. A thrill rushed through my body. I clicked the red answer button on the screen. “Colin!”

“Hey, baby.” His deep voice purred through the phone. “You’ll never guess where I am.”

“Beirut?”

He laughed. “I don’t even want to know why you said that. No, I’m in a cab and we just passed the Metairie Road exit. I should be home in about ten or fifteen minutes.”

My knees went weak, and I leaned against the wall. I couldn’t believe my ears. “You’re
home
?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? Angela said she’d e-mailed you.”

That bitch
,
I thought. “All her e-mail said was ‘contact made,’” I replied, trying not to let my anger at her creep into my voice. “She didn’t say anything about you coming home.”

“Don’t get mad at her,” he replied with a laugh. “To her, that means I’m on my way home. She forgets you don’t know her code words.”

I took a deep cleansing breath and let the irritation go. Once I was centered again, I couldn’t help but laugh myself. “Are you sure you’re not the psychic around here? It’s like you read my mind.”

“I just know my Scotty.” His voice was low and seductive, sending a chill of desire through my body. He’d been gone for months. “I can’t wait to get home. Man, I need me some hot lovin’ from my boys.”