The Girl on the Edge of Summer Page 23

“I’ve been investigating,” I started.

  “This is a murder inquiry.” Her eyes were hidden, only a slight downturn of the mouth indicated her displeasure.

  “Yeah, well, my client is wrongly accused of murder, and I have to clear her name.”

  “The client would be you?” She took a sip of her coffee, keeping her face unreadable.

  “Yes, that would be the case.” I was at her mercy now. I laid it all out, starting with what Brandon told me—I didn’t give his name; he was a kid, maybe a confused, over-his-head kid, but still, he didn’t need the police knocking at his door when he could only tell them what he’d told me. From there to the girlfriend.

  “Wait, Eddie had a real girlfriend?” Joanne interrupted.

  That was the first sign I’d found what the police hadn’t. Yeah, she hadn’t wanted to go to the police, but there was no way to avoid it at this point—and it would make her safer.

  I went from the girlfriend to the garage to as short a version as I could of what I’d done out there.

  I noticed that Joanne wrote down the license plate number.

  She took another sip of her coffee, then said, “Well, they don’t sound like law-abiding citizens, but having a party late at night is hardly a crime. Not enough to do much with. We can dredge the canal for the gun, but unless the water hasn’t worn away the fingerprints, it’s not very helpful. Any half-rate defense attorney would claim you planted it there.”

  I told the less abbreviated version of my night’s adventures. That they’d seen me and obsessively hunted for me. The meth mouth. They had guns, almost fired one into the bushes where I was.

  Joanne was silent when I finished. Another sip of her coffee. “Homeless dumpster diving, huh?”

  “Yeah, I took one of the longest showers of my life before I came here.”

  “I appreciate the effort.”

  Another sip of her coffee. Her face, and what she was thinking, hidden.

  “Damn it, Joanne! Do you really think I offed some two-bit punk? Or is this about me going out with Alex when you two were split up?”

  She was too controlled to slam her coffee down on the table, but it was close.

  “Sorry, you’re way too professional and ethical to let something like that in any way influence your investigation. I’m sure you’ve already thoroughly looked into all the other suspects—so many of them, and they all had perfect, unbreakable alibis—before you settled on me.” The words were said, but the font was definitely sarcasm.

  Her hand tightened around the coffee cup, then she pulled away, realizing a paper cup and hot coffee would not be a good combination to crush.

  “Damn you, Knight.” It was a harsh whisper. “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Oh, I get it, the JP cops decided the dyke did it and you kept your mouth shut.”

  A crack, enough of a grimace to let me know something had hit. She gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

  Same harsh whisper. “Did you sleep with her?”

  I’d hit a live wire. I told the truth. “Joanne, it doesn’t matter. She chose you.”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Then you need to ask her.”

  “I have.”

  Ah, that was the snake in the grass. Joanne didn’t trust Alex’s answer.

  “She chose you,” I repeated. We had been friends for a long time, close friends once, an affair a long time ago when we were both single, too combustible to be compatible. But our friendship had held for long after that. Only recently had we drifted away, life pulling us apart, but maybe also not wanting to walk around the messy places we’d made. Like this one.

  First it was innocent, mostly, wanting to go to a concert and not wanting to go alone. Alex invited me. I said yes. Then we both realized we were, at least technically, single. Went out a few more times, mostly talked. Should we, shouldn’t we? Both aware we were in the messy aftermath. Loneliness—and alcohol—moved things along. But even then only to fooling around, somewhere between second and third base in high school terms. I had not stayed the night, not slept naked beside her through to the sunrise.

  In the end, Alex had decided she couldn’t throw away all the years she had built with Joanne and gave it another try. One that, so far, was working.

  The kind and decent part of me was happy for them, happy the years mattered and two people I cared about found the love that bound them together. The not-so-decent part of me? They were together and I was alone. Did I resent that? It wasn’t the ache of losing someone I thought I could have a life with; we hadn’t gotten that far. But I hadn’t been the chosen one. Even if it was the right decision for all of us, it still rankled that part of me that wasn’t as perfect as I wanted to be.

  I had let that bleed over into our friendship, being busy when they invited me over with our other friends. But the invitations were few, and then none. Maybe Joanne hadn’t wanted me around, either. Out of sight, out of mind. Almost.

  Could we repair it?

  Did we want to?

  Maybe, at least for now, I just needed to settle for not going to jail for murder.

  “No, I did not sleep with her,” I said. The truth was too messy for yes-and-no clarity, but we hadn’t spent the night together into the morning light, and I would take that as my definition. It worked for both of us; she heard what she needed to hear and I told the real truth. Alex had chosen to stay with Joanne.

  “Would you lie to me?” she asked, her hands still gripping the table.

  “Of course,” I said. “But I’m not. Not about Alex. Not about the murder.”

  Joanne nodded. Took a sip of her coffee. At least brought the cup to her lips, but I didn’t see her swallow. Time to compose herself.

  Putting her cup down, she said, “Look, this is complicated. We have both Orleans and Jefferson Parish involved. They see the evidence one way, and I have to listen to them and hope they listen to me as well.”

  “Are you saying they think I did it? And you don’t? And why are you involved?”

  “To your last question, I’m a liaison with the Jefferson Parish cops. Eddie’s murder happened out there, as well as your confrontation with him. Yeah, I shouldn’t be in on this, but we have too few people to spare. As to the first two questions, I can’t say. You know that. Could you have killed him in self-defense? Yes.”

  “I could have. But I didn’t.”

  “Could you have killed him because he was a scumbag and needed killing? A serial rapist? I might have killed him for that.”

  “But I didn’t. He was enough of a scumbag that life was going to take care of him.”

  “Even if I believe you—and I do—that’s not good enough. The JP guys are going to go where the evidence leads them.”

  “Fine. I get that. There has to be evidence that leads away from me. Lean on Mrs. Stevens. Check some of the other neighbors. A gunshot in that neighborhood gets noticed. Do surveillance on the garage. Or raid it. Question the girlfriend. She needs police protection whether she knows it or not. Find the gun in the canal. It will not have my fingerprints on it.”

  “Okay, I’ll do what I can. But you have to promise me you’ll stay out of this. If those thugs point a finger at you for being out there, it’ll taint any evidence we find. The further you stay away, the better for you.”

  “They think it was two men who tackled them. Not a middle-aged lady.”

  “If it comes down to you being arrested, we can argue self-defense. Edward Springhorn was not a nice guy. We found enough vile stuff on his computer that he’d have gone away for a long time. We haven’t found his phone yet, but he probably used that more than anything else.”

  “I would prefer it not come to that.”

  “Me, too.”

  Her cell phone rang; she looked at the screen and answered, just long enough to say she was on her way.

  “I have to go,” she told me.

  “Yeah, I guessed that.”

  We both stood up. She picked up
her things.

  I asked, “Is Cordelia in town?”

  She looked at me, the eyes hidden, her face neutral, giving away nothing except the hint that there was something not to be given away.

  “Why do you ask?” She busied herself with putting her phone away.

  “Thought I saw someone that looked like her. None of you are available this upcoming weekend.”

  Joanne threw her half-drunk coffee into the trash can. Then said, “No, she’s not in town. At least, not that I know of.”

  She started to walk away, saying, “I’ll give you a call in a few days. Stay out of trouble and away from our investigation.”

  She kept walking.

  I took my cup of coffee. I needed both the caffeine and the warmth.

  I headed back to my office, mulling over our conversation. She said Cordelia was not in town. It had probably been as true as my saying I hadn’t slept with Alex. She didn’t say Cordelia hadn’t been in town or if she was coming. Just not here right at the moment.

  Maybe I had seen her. Maybe I hadn’t.

  Maybe I’d be cleared of murder. Maybe I’d have to claim self-defense.

  Too many fucking maybes.

  It was too early to spike my coffee with brandy.

  I had to settle for the cooling comfort of caffeine. After finishing the cup Joanne bought me, I made another pot. At least this would be hot.

  Two messages from Douglas Townson were blinking on my answering machine. The first was asking—not really asking, but asking in the kind of tone that made it an order—to call him back and the second was saying that he would be in town in the next few days. Asking—in the same tone—for a meeting.

  After a slug of fresh coffee—and wishing for the brandy—I called him back, fervently hoping I could get away with leaving a message.

  The worst of both worlds. A pleasant woman answered, told me Mr. Townson wanted to speak to me, then left on me hold long enough for me to finish the just-poured coffee and consider whether I wanted another cup or if I should go to the bathroom first.

  The time on hold would be put on his bill.

  Just as I was deciding that maybe I should take a bathroom break, “So, what do you have for me?” broke into my contemplation.

  I recovered enough to answer smoothly, “As I said at the beginning, I didn’t think I could solve a century-old murder, but I have stumbled over interesting information about your great-grandfather’s excursions into New Orleans that might at least give you some idea of what may have happened.”

  “Really? Like what?”

  “I’m still piecing things together. I’ll need to do more research before I can have anything that I’d feel comfortable presenting to you.” My first real out-and-out lie of the day.

  “I’m going to be in New Orleans sometime next week. Do you think you can have it for me by then?”

  “Next week, when?”

  “Not sure yet. Can we meet and you show me what you have?”

  I agreed. He was a paying customer. I suspected Mrs. Stevens might be slow, like never, to pay her bill and I couldn’t very well bill myself, so money coming in was a necessary thing. I’d have something by then—even nothing more than I had now would do.

  He hung up without even saying good-bye. Too busy, obviously.

  Then I heeded the call of nature and went to the bathroom.

  Then I started at my computer screen, wondering how soon I could call it lunch and have deciding on whether to get a sandwich or a salad to occupy my time.

  Then I remembered the glint of glasses from someone at the garage. A figure outlined in the glare from the door. Short.

  Brandon?

  “You dumb fuck,” I muttered. Eddie had hired him to do computer stuff. Had Eddie’s friends continued the deal? Was he there helping them to set up their putative “movie” links and too dumb and naïve to realize he was in with drug dealers? Everyone, even stupid-as-shit drug dealers, needed internet access these days.

  Another glance at my watch. Not even lunch. He’d be in school now.

  Not your problem. You’re not his mother or his guidance counselor.

  Joanne had warned me to stay away, a suggestion I was happy to honor. Drug thugs with guns are not what I want to tangle with.

  Go buy the kid one more pizza after school. Warn him away from having anything more to do with that garage and the people in it.

  Come home and sleep well at night.

  I texted him, asking to meet at the pizza place after school. Said I was buying. One more all-meat pizza to salve my conscience.

  Lunch sounded like a taco truck by the library. I had told Douglas Townson I’d have stuff for him by next week, so I would dig as deep as I could.

  Better in the archives than sitting here staring at my computer screen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Brandon felt the vibration from his phone, but he didn’t dare look at it. Ms. Lee was too near and she was known to confiscate phones from students paying more attention to them than learning. She’d grabbed Kevin’s one day and texted his mother saying that he wanted to do more to help around the house, so could she teach him how to cook?

  Brandon almost smiled at how much explaining Kevin had to do to get out of that one.

  He also wasn’t feeling good. Maybe getting sick.

  Or maybe just too many late nights. He’d had four beers last night, more than he’d ever had. He wanted to keep up with Kevin and the others. But halfway through the fourth one, he didn’t think he could take another sip without gagging. He’d been so proud of himself for getting through it without anyone catching on.

  His mother had caught him coming in, but he’d claimed he just needed to take a walk. He told her he couldn’t sleep and he thought a walk about the block would help. He was a good liar, he decided. She hadn’t questioned him, just told him to go back to bed.

  Now Ms. Lee couldn’t tell that he was dying to see what was on his phone.

  He told himself it was probably Kevin wanting to sneak off for burgers for lunch. Not what he was waiting for. Now that Brandon could pay, Kevin was happy to drive.

  Finally class was over. He hurried off, needing to find a quiet place to look at his phone. He found it in the hallway near the principal’s office. No one came here unless they had to.

  Leaning on the wall, with a final look around to make sure no one—no one who would question him—was about, he looked down at his phone screen, scrolling for the messages. “We need 2 meet asap. Aft. sch?” He typed back his reply, “Yes, gr8. Where?” The answer, “Next block. Red truck.” He typed back “OK,” but was puzzled. Why were they sending a truck? He’d never seen a red one before.

  It didn’t matter. They didn’t have his experience. The one thing he had learned in computer games was how to win.

  Another message came through. “Can we meet? Pizza place?” He was also puzzled by that one. He’d answer later. The bell for the next class was ringing, and he was on the wrong side of the building.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  She stared at the text message.

  He was dead. He couldn’t be sending her any more messages.

  But there it was on her phone. “Suck me off or I show the pics,” just like the last message he had sent. The same time. A different location. Of course a different one. The cops still had the first one taped off.

  Three bullets. She’d watched them hit him, the sound, the blood. The look on his face. First surprise. Then anger. Finally fear. And then nothing.

  But it was the same number. The same message.

  The same nightmare.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The musty smell of old books. Libraries give me the comfort of knowing I’ll never run out of books to read. Indeed, the real frustration is I’ll never get to read all the books I want to read, not even know about books that I would want to read.

  I was back in front of Samuel Braud’s diary, on a case that had nothing to do with the present murders and in about as s
afe and serene a place as I could find.

  I would let the billable hours pile up. Even what I charged would be a pittance to the kind of money Douglas Townson earned. Better some of it trickle down to me.

  I finished reading all of 1906 and into 1907.

  He mentioned the murder of Townson Senior a few times, mostly recounting reports to his superiors in which he outlined everything the investigation had done and what it had turned up. The final report said it was likely to be unsolved and hinted that Townson’s behavior might have been the cause of the murder. Women were still found murdered, especially “those kinds of women,” but none choked on their undergarments. Those had stopped.

  Lunch was indeed a taco truck parked out by City Hall, and it was a nice enough day to sit and eat in Duncan Park, a small respite of green between it and the library.

  I went back to the library even though I doubted I would find anything more to tell Douglas Townson. The truth was I had come to like Samuel Braud and his beloved Alibe, as he called her. My curiosity wanted to finish reading his diary, to visit a century long before I was born, lived on streets I walked on today.

  I didn’t get a text back from Brandon until the middle of the afternoon, probably just as school was letting out. “Can’t meet 2day. Tomorrow?” I stared at it before replying, “OK,” wondering if he was doing something with the garage boys tonight. Or maybe it was band practice. Brandon looked like the kind of guy who played the French horn. I didn’t want to text a warning; it would be hard to explain in the brief format what was going on. Plus I didn’t want to leave any record I was doing this. Joanne might view it as breaking my agreement that I wouldn’t interfere. I viewed it as not letting a kid ruin his life because of adolescent stupidity.

  I went back to reading Samuel’s diary. He did what I’d done, searching for other similar murders to the woman in the District, in case the murderer had moved on. But, like I had, he found none similar enough to raise suspicions.

  He solved other murders, mostly the usual ones, drunken brawls, domestic violence. Some of the people reappeared. Rob Byrnes—as he insisted was the proper spelling—continued his drunk and disorderly, but there was affection in his mentions as if Rob was a funny and polite drunkard, too fond of his wine, but with few other vices. Augustine Lamoureaux and her coffee shop partner Roxanne Beaudoin reappeared, from offering a kind cup of soup on a cold day, to giving him information, mostly on those who preyed on the weak, but, he acknowledged, claimed to know nothing when a posh gent said his wallet was stolen. Reading between the lines, I began to suspect that Augustine and Roxanne were more than just friends. That theory was bolstered when he found out from them that Teddy, the stable boy, was actually a stable girl—woman really. As Augustine said, “She loves horses and hates skirts. She works hard and is kind. Leave her alone.” To his credit, Samuel Braud did. The Corner Coffee Café, as they called it, seemed to be the place where the queer people of the time gathered. It made sense. Storyville was not for the polite people, and it seemed to accept those no one else would. Even drunken Rob had a roommate, a fellow by the name of Brady. Oddly, I hoped they found love and some semblance of happiness in their long-ago lives.