To Murder a Saint (Saints Mystery Series Book 1) Read online

  With that I put my head between my knees and noticed that my skirt had ridden up, exposing the contraption I was wearing as underwear. I stood and pulled it down. Then the detective gave me a giant plastic Ziploc bag and asked, “Could you put that in here for me? And make sure you don’t wash up just yet.”

  I picked up my duffle bag and walked to the bathroom. He packed well. My favorite sweats were on top, complete with a hair tie, pair of sneakers and socks. I put it on and came out with my red dress safely zipped up in the plastic bag. I held it with the tips of my fingers and passed it to him.

  “Can you tell me about you and Josephine and your life here?” He said.

  “We moved here because we always wanted to live in New York. We dreamed of being here together. Josephine wanted to live the Sex in the City life, you know. She loved fashion and magazines. We moved here after she was offered an internship at a magazine. She had only been there a couple of weeks.”

  “Was there anybody at the magazine that didn’t like her?” he asked.

  “She said the managing editor liked her.”

  “Did he take a particular interest in her? Did he really like her?”

  “The managing editor is a she, and from what I saw a very pregnant she. I suppose there was already a little jealousy from some of the other interns, because Josephine was so outgoing. But, nobody knew where we lived. We haven’t had a single visitor yet or even finished unpacking.”

  “So, none of the Internet dates have been to your apartment?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him.

  “Those things can be searched easy enough. Just because you didn’t tell anybody where you lived didn’t mean people didn’t know.”

  “I suppose,” I told him.

  “There is always another possibility,” he said sitting forward. “What about people back home? Anybody really hate her? Really love her?”

  “Well, every girl from high school hated her. She was a really beautiful girl in a really small town. She was always the big fish if you know what I mean. She once had a stalker, but he lives really far away.”

  “Name please,” Banyan said with his pen touched to his notepad.

  “Thibodeaux, Terry Thibodeaux. He had a really bad crush on her for years. She led him on in high school no big deal, but when we moved to New Orleans for college we kept bumping into him. And once we found him in our bushes. It kind of scared her so she got a restraining order.”

  “That is a good place to start,” Banyan told me. “So far we can’t find a witness to anybody coming into or leaving your apartment except you. There is no sign of forced entry so there are a lot of questions that need answers.”

  “Well, I can answer one of those for you. Nobody would need to break in. Josephine never locked the door. She was used to living on a swamp that is only accessible by boat. No need to lock the door when you can always hear people coming.”

  It then occurred to me that somebody would have to tell her parents. “Did anybody call her mamma or her daddy?” I asked. Normally, I would have called them parents in front of East coasters, but picturing her parents in my head made my Cajun words of endearment come out.

  “Somebody is calling them,” he replied.

  Tears started to streak my face thinking about her family. It made it more real. I looked down and wiped up my now dripping nose on my sleeve. I was about to go into a full sob when Banyan made a soft ahem, to remind me that he was still there.

  “I am sorry but, I have to ask about your accent. That’s the first time you said anything, southern.” He said making air quotes around southern. “Weren’t you guys from the south?”

  “We were. I took a class to clear my accent up. People were always asking about it. I didn’t like that. Josephine sill had her accent and it was a doozie.”

  “She didn’t mind being asked about it?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I understand that Josephine was a writer. What exactly do you do?

  “I am a musician; I have a degree in musical theory anyway. I guess I am sort of a pianist.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Where do you play?”

  “Well, I have two regular gigs. One is unpaid work at an off Broadway playhouse.”

  “And the other gig?”

  I put my head down, filling with embarrassment. “I play the toy floor keyboard at FAO Schwarz. I recreate the scene from that movie “Big” every hour on the hour. My job is to come out, dance a tune and then supervise children during open play time on the keyboard.”

  He smiled at that. “Sounds like a fun job.”

  I did not reply and instead kept my head down.

  “I need just one more thing from you,” he said. “Then I can get out of here. I need you to run this swab along your right hand and this along one of your feet.”

  He handed me two long cotton swabs. I had seen enough cop shows to know they were checking for residue.

  “So you know I am right handed?” I asked as I ran the first one along my hand. He nodded and held out an opened plastic Ziploc bag to collect it.

  I ran the other one along the bottom of my foot, which I now saw was blackened and covered in mysterious sticky spots, some with hair coming out of them. I ran the swab up and down it making a big show of it then held it up close to Banyan’s face. His mouth was turned down and he backed his face away from the swab.

  “Well, it’s clear you haven’t washed your feet,” he said making a note on his little pad.

  “Have fun with that,” I said and deposited the now blackened swab in a second bag.

  After sealing it away he said, “I think it goes without saying that we are going to ask that you stay here tonight. Don’t go anywhere. We are going to follow up with the dating site and try to get names on the men she was talking to. We need to talk to the man you walked out on tonight, too. What was his name again?”

  “Ugh, Jason Stepwald. I would really rather you not call him. I was such a jerk.”

  “We have to check everything, and frankly you need an alibi.”

  Then he left with a promise to return in the morning.

  I stayed on the bed staring out the window at nothing in particular; it was still fully dark. I had run out of thoughts and feelings for the night. After a long while, I slumped to one side and fell asleep.

  I awoke the next morning in the same spot. My cell phone was blinking conspicuously on the bedside table. Banyan must have put it there, I thought, because I knew I hadn’t.

  Two voicemail messages.

  The first was from Josephine’s dad, Clement. He sounded terrible. He had the gravelly, tired voice of a man who spent the night before cursing in the wind, which I am sure he did.

  “Ma cher, Fanchon, come down here and visit us right quick. Me and Abolina is a mess with what the police told us happened to Josephine. I don’t believe it from the mouth of outsiders. You come down here, cher, and bring back the body of Josephine for me and her mamma, please. If it even true what dem say. I don’t believe the law.”

  The second was a very unwelcome call. “Hey, this is Jason. The cops called last night. They asked me to come to the station this morning, and they told me what happened to your roommate. I am so sorry. No wonder you had to run out. I am a little relieved. I thought I did something to upset you. Again, I am sorry to hear it. If there are any insurance questions you have in this time of need, please don’t hesitate to call. Oh, and you left your wrap at the restaurant. I grabbed it for you. I can bring it to your house or mail it, whichever you prefer. Please call me. Again this is Jason and…” I skipped the rest of his message.

  I didn’t care about that wrap. It went to a dress I would never wear again. I saved Clem’s message and picked up the phone to call him. My finger hovered over the four, his number on my speed dial. I let it linger a moment while I prepared for an emotional call. I knew I would be speaking Cajun, in a time of crisis we always revert to the mother language. It helps us know whom to trust and separates in
siders from outsiders.

  “Bonjou,” I said when he answered. “Bonjou, ma cher.” Then there was sobbing, wordless sobbing. After the first burst of emotion, Clem took a deep breath and squeaked out the word for true, “Vrai?”

  “Oui.” We continued our conversation in our modified French and made plans for my return to the bayou.

  “Return my progeny to her family crypt, ma cher,” Clem said and then I heard the phone hit the floor and screams in the distance. I was about to hang up when I heard the phone rustle and a familiar voice came on the line.

  “Cher, this is Abolina talking,” said Josephine’s mother.

  “Is he okay?” I asked.

  “He will be all right as can be given the circumstances. We miss you terrible and I..” she stopped. Her voice had started wavering showing me how close she was to losing her composure as well. She regrouped after a few breaths and continued “But I got to tell you two things. First, Beau is gonna get you at the airport and bring you here. Second, Madame Du’Ponde came by here last night after the news got out. We had a frightful mess of visitors, truth be told, and she wanted me to tell you to leave that city of yours as soon as may be.”

  “I am surprised Clem let Du’Ponde in his house given the history,” I replied without offering anything about the Madame’s warning. I had little faith in her “abilities.”

  “I didn’t say he let her in the house. I say she come by. Anyway, she worried about you and just as well you should be here with your own folk, warning or not.”

  “As soon as may be I will be there,” I said.

  “That’s right. As soon as may be.”

  After I hit the end button I wanted nothing more than to be home. I didn’t need anybody to encourage me in that. My eyes were puffy, my face was red and there was nobody left to talk to and nothing left to do. I dragged myself to the shower and stood under the water for a long time. After I dried off I found my duffle bag was complete with more good packing. Detective Banyan had put a lot of thought into my clothing. Another outfit complete with matching shoes. I noticed a conservative black dress at the bottom of the bag and flat black shoes. I knew what that was for and it brought me to tears. He really did think of everything.

  City of the Saints

  Detective Banyan and I were neighbors on the flight to Louisiana. He asked me several questions, some related to the investigation, some not.

  “What I need is more information about Josephine from back home. Did she have any enemies, anybody who didn’t like her?” Banyan asked.

  “She was beautiful even by New York standards. So, there were some jealous people back home. Josephine stole a boyfriend or two in high school, but nobody disliked her enough to go all the way to New York to kill her.”

  “What’s her family like?”

  I thought on that question for a moment. Trying to decide how I should go about explaining bayou folk to somebody born north of the Mason-Dixon Line. Finally I said, “They are troubled but kind. I spent more time with them than I did with my own family in high school. My father had problems, and it was always more welcoming at Josephine’s house.”

  “From what I hear her father is not a very stable person, but you liked to be there?”

  “He wasn’t always unstable. Josephine had a little sister who died while we were in high school,” I said. “That’s when his mind started going soft, and who could blame him? He was too grief stricken to work. He lost his hunting business and now he sits at home most days doing the only thing he can to make money, killing gators and selling their skulls to tourists. He and Abolina live off gator meat mostly.”

  With this Banyan perked up. “Tell me more about the alligator skulls.”

  “No,” I said abruptly. “I am not going to help you poke fun. And you should choose your words carefully when you talk to him. You are an outsider, and if you say the wrong thing to him nobody will talk to you.”

  “Okay, new subject,” he said. “Why were you girls in such a hurry to leave the state?”

  “We weren’t in a hurry. We went to New Orleans after high school for college and like everybody else we worked for the tourists to save money. There was nothing for us there after school so we left. We could have spent our days touring people on swamp boats or wearing hoop skirts and serving mint juleps on retired plantations, but we wanted more. Josephine wanted to be a writer, and she was really good at it.”

  “What about you?” he said.

  “I really want to get into a symphony. Playing music is all I know. People used to say I was really good back home. Even when we were in New Orleans I had a few big jobs, but nothing has come through in New York yet. The competition is on a different level.”

  “How did you two pay your rent? I’ve seen your bills. Neither of you made enough to cover it,” he said.

  “We have savings, a lot of savings. As soon as Clem’s mind went soft, neither of us wanted to be home, so we started working after school, as much as we could. We saved all the money we made for eight years. And Josephine was good with money.” I smiled at a memory of her. “When we were just sixteen we opened a joint bank account. It was our first stop after we got our driver’s licenses.”

  “We noticed the shared bank account,” he said. “It has quite a lot of money in it for two girls living simply.”

  We finished our ride with me teaching him bits of Cajun. How we use “cher” pronounced like the singer Cher in the same way some people use darling or sweetie. I told him we greet with Bonjou instead of hello and au revoir when we say good bye. I told him how we stole bits of English and French to form our own hybrid language.

  Banyan told me his first name was Bruce and shared with me that he had lived on the East Coast all of his life.

  When we arrived, Banyan stepped aside to take a call. I continued down the terminal and waited for him at the exit. I wanted to see his reaction when he saw the sculpture at the main gate.

  The gigantic winged Icarus that is positioned above the gate is meant to be a poetic nod to the Greek myth about a man flying with manmade wings, but the face has a demonic quality that makes it feel menacing. It always made me uneasy to walk under it. The supports are too well hidden. The demonic bird-man looks like he is ready to swoop down to pick off lonely passengers.

  Banyan walked under the sculpture looking down until he was right under it. When he shifted his attention upward he jumped and said, “What the hell is that?”

  I smiled at him, enjoying his reaction and said, “That’s Icarus. Legend said his wings were made from bird feathers and wax. His father made them to help him elude capture, but Icarus was too cocky with the wings, flew into the sun, the wax melted and he fell to his death.”

  “I know what Icarus is. Why the hell would that thing be in a national airport?” Banyan shouted.

  “We are a little different down here, Banyan. Everybody believes in a little magic, some voodoo.”

  “So they threw a terrifying statue in an airport because of magic?”

  “It’s a warning, Banyan. My dad said it was about failed ambition. He used to tell me not to try to fly too high or I could get burned. Clem said it was literal, a warning to the pilots not to get too close to the sun and fry the plane, and Josephine used to say it was a warning to people visiting New Orleans not to flirt with trouble while they were here lest they catch on fire, which she said was just a euphemism for not catching STDs.”

  Banyan doubled over laughing. After a moment he wiped a tear away from his eye and stood up. “She sounds like she was a very funny woman.”

  “She was,” I replied.

  When we got to the outer terminal there was a sign that said, “Welcome to the City of Saints.” It was flanked with fleur de lis, the symbol of the city.

  “What’s the City of Saints?” he asked.

  “It’s New Orleans, Banyan. Haven’t you ever heard of the Saints? You know, ‘who dat say they gonna beat dem Saints?”

  He gave me a quizzical look.


  “You have probably heard of our football team, the New Orleans Saints. You know the song ‘When the Saints Go Marching In?’ That’s us.”

  He nodded his head then bent down to grab his luggage from the baggage carousel.

  With our bags in hand we walked out onto the street and were pelted with the sounds of jazz. Street musicians were playing for tips, saxophone guy to the left and fiddler girl to the right. We were just centered enough for the sounds to be competing. It did not take long to spot our ride. Josephine’s cousin Beau came for us in his ancient rusted red Ford. It was the tallest vehicle within sight because of its monster truck sized tires. The truck roared up to us, shaking as it approached. Beau rolled down the window and shouted for us to toss our bags into the bed of the truck. I sat in the middle of the bench seat straddling the stick shift, giving Banyan the window. After we were in, Beau passed me a beer and asked me to hold it for the ride. The truck was so old it didn’t even have cup holders.

  “Probably not the best idea to drink while a cop is in the car,” Banyan said to Beau.

  “No police gonna tell me what to do in my car Fanchon,” Beau said looking at me. Beau had kicked people out of his truck for less.

  I turned to Banyan, “Nobody cares if you drink and drive in Louisiana. There are drive up Daiquiri stands and drive through beer garages all over the place.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” he said and shook his head. Then he said in a slow annunciated way, “Proceed, Beau.”

  Beau snorted and licked at the chew in his lip.

  “Please, Beau,” I implored. “For Josephine, move on. Oui?”

  Beau ran his hands through his curly, dirty blonde hair thinking over his response. He opened his truck door, spit on the ground, then slammed the door and tore away from the airport squealing his tires. After a few hours of silent driving, without air conditioning, we were getting close to our little parish. I could smell the change in the air. It was clean and humid.