Baton Rouge Bingo (6 page)

They talked in voices too low for me to hear, and then the two newcomers headed to the cabin while Donnie Ray walked back to where we were standing.

“So, what are you folks doing out there?” He said it in a friendly tone, but his eyes were cold and hard. He pulled out a little notepad from his shirt pocket, flipping it open expertly and getting a pen from his pants pocket.

“Like I said before, my mom went to school with Veronica Porterie,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral and non-threatening. “When we heard about the tiger being kidnapped on television, and that AFAR was taking credit for taking him, Mom remembered the Porteries had this place out here. We thought we’d come check it out. It made sense, you know? I mean, they had to have a place to hide the tiger, right?” His face took on a strange look, and I added quickly, “I’m a private eye.” I pulled out my wallet, hoping I had one of my business cards in it. I breathed out a sigh of relief as I saw one, which I slipped out and handed to him. He examined it skeptically. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the taller deputy come tearing out of the cabin, run over to his car, and start talking on the radio.

Donnie Ray gave me a weird look as he slipped my business card into his shirt pocket. He jerked a thumb over at the ancient Chevrolet. “You don’t know whose car that is, do you?”

“No,” I replied. “I assumed it was Veronica’s.”

He nodded and jotted down the license plate. He gave me a curious look, his thin lips widening in a smile. “So, you and your mother just decided to come out here to the Porterie place to look for Mike the Tiger, huh? A good hunch, I suppose, but as you can see there’s no place around here to keep or hide a tiger. No barn or pen or anything.” One of his thick red eyebrows slid upward. “No one’s been out here in years. It always surprised me a little that the Porteries kept paying the taxes on the place. I figured they’d eventually sell it.”

“You’re familiar with the place?” I was a little surprised. It seemed to be pretty well off the beaten path. The cop who’d been on the radio came walking over to us. Donnie Ray held up a finger again with a slight smile and went to meet him. Once again, they talked in voices too low for me to hear anything, and then both came walking over to us.

“This is Deputy Howie Landers,” Donnie Ray said. “He’s going to be asking you some questions, Mrs. Bradley, while I keep talking to Scotty here.”

Howie Landers smiled at us both. Up close, his teeth were yellow and crooked, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke. He was a little taller than me, and now that he was so close, I could see that he’d let his body go a little to seed. He had love handles and a bit of a soft tire around the middle. His arms were strong and beefy, though, and he took his sunglasses off to reveal bloodshot brown eyes that were set a little too close together. His cheeks were riddled with acne scars. “Nice to meetcha,” he drawled. “You want to come join me over by the car, ma’am? We can sit in the air-conditioning if you like—if you don’t mind my saying so, you look a little green around the gills.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Mom replied in a very small voice, and followed him across the sparse lawn.

I stared after them.

“You okay?”

I turned back to Donnie Ray. “I’m worried about her. I think she may be in shock.”

He glanced over at them. Mom was talking, gesturing with her hands and looking a lot more animated. She seemed to be more herself, so I muttered a quick prayer for Howie Landers and turned my attention back to Deputy Tindall.

“She looks like she’s going to be fine,” he said. “It helps to talk. Howie’s a good guy, he’ll get her mind off what she saw.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” I nodded. “You sounded like you know this place pretty well.”

“Like I said, the Porteries don’t come out here that much anymore. But kids come out here to party,” he admitted, lowering his voice and glancing from side to side to make sure no one could hear what he was saying. “It’s quiet and out of the way, and they can be as loud as they want to be and no one would ever know.” He shook his head. “One of these days some drunk kid’s going to drive his car off that driveway into the bayou and drown himself, and there’s going to be hell to pay, you mark my words. The Porteries need to gate the damned driveway.” He shook his head. “Absolutely no reason for anyone to be able to get back here that easy.”

“Did you use to come out here when you were in high school?” I asked, unable to help myself from smiling.

He bit his lower lip. “Maybe. Maybe not. So, you and your mother drove out here from New Orleans?”

“I didn’t say we were from New Orleans.”

“Your business card said you were.” He inclined his head. “Besides, when you called in, Howie ran you, found your private eye license in the system. And your mother’s arrest record.” His eyes twinkled a little bit. “Got arrested yesterday in Baton Rouge, even.” He made a little noise. “Punched the attorney general, did she?” He winked at me. “Troy’s from Tangipahoa Parish, you know. I went to high school with his little sister.”

“Yeah, well, Mom’s kind of feisty.” I shrugged and returned his smile. “You see why I was worried about her. She’s usually a spitfire.”

“There are worse things.” He shrugged. “How well did you know the deceased?”

“If the deceased is Veronica Porterie, I didn’t know her well. I haven’t seen her since I was a little boy. She was my mother’s best friend in high school.”

“It’s Veronica Porterie, all right,” he admitted, writing in his little notepad. “Or someone who looks a lot like her.”

“Sounds like you knew her.”

He smiled. “There’s a lot of Porteries in Tangipahoa Parish, Mr. Bradley. Being related to the crazy lady who runs AFAR’s not exactly a point of pride for them.” He scratched his chin with his pen. “My fiancée’s a Porterie, so you can say I’m pretty familiar with what Veronica Porterie looks like.”

“Call me Scotty.” I filed the information about the Porteries away in my mind. “That must be kind of awkward, after AFAR took credit for kidnapping Mike.”

His face tightened. “That tiger is not in Tangipahoa Parish, I can tell you that for a fact, Mr. Brad—Scotty.” He relaxed. “So, you and your mother came out here to look for the tiger?” There was a bit of amusement in his voice—which, despite being a bit insulting, was probably understandable.

“I’m a private eye, like I said,” I replied. “We didn’t think it would hurt anything to come take a look around. We thought maybe even if Mike wasn’t here, Veronica might be, and we might be able to talk her into returning him, you know?” I held up both hands in a “couldn’t hurt to try” way. “So, anyway, we came out here—Mom remembered coming here when she was a kid—and when we went up on the porch to knock on the front door, we found her. We backed right down the steps without touching anything.”

His eyebrows came together. “Didn’t it occur to either of you it might be dangerous?”

“Dangerous?”

He flipped his notebook closed. “Veronica Porterie and her gang are murderers, you know. They’ve killed before—you mean to say it never occurred to you and your mother that you could be walking right into danger? What if they really
did
bring Mike here?”

“It never occurred to me,” I admitted, feeling my face starting to turn red. “I suppose it wasn’t very smart.”

“To say the least.” He flipped his notebook closed.

We eventually had to go back to the Rouen police department to swear out statements, and after what seemed like a million years, they finally let us go.

As Frank poured a good stiff bourbon for Mom, Storm came out his bedroom in his robe, rubbing his eyes. “Don’t glare at me,” I said, plopping down in a reclining chair and pulling the lever so it popped into a more prone position. “It wasn’t my idea to go out there. I went along thinking I was going to keep her out of trouble.” I rolled my eyes. “I should have known better.”

Mom took the glass from Frank gratefully. She took a healthy drink before sitting down on the couch. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” She shuddered and took another sip. “Frank, I’m sorry we missed your match. I assume you won?”

“I always win,” he replied, giving her a worried look. “But I’m more concerned about you, Mom. Are you sure you’re okay? Death isn’t pretty to look in the face.” He sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders, and she put her head down on his.

Storm handed me a glass of vodka with a few pieces of ice floating in it. I took a sip and grimaced. It was smooth with a bit of a cold bite, and I felt my throat starting to warm up. “Thanks.” I smiled up at him as the vodka started relaxing me. “Did you talk to Hope?”

“Of course I talked to Hope.” He sat down in the other reclining chair and the footrest popped out. “The cops weren’t too happy about me showing up when I did, and getting her out of there, but they didn’t have anything to hold her on in the first place…and I didn’t like the idea of her giving them anything they could use against her at a later time.” He shook his head. “I don’t really think she gets just how bad this all looks for her. And it’s worse than we thought.” He sighed. “I’ve written a check out to you guys—I’m retaining you to work on the case, so everything we say here is protected.”

“What about Mom?” I glanced over at where she and Frank were talking in low voices.

“As long as she doesn’t hear us, we’re good. I already briefed Frank while we were waiting for you two.” He took a swig of his own drink and put it down on the end table. “Hope is in some seriously deep shit and has no clue. I’m calling in Loren McKeithen—I don’t have the time to deal with this until the legislative session is over.” He rubbed his face with his hands. “She’s been in touch with her mother. Well,
was
in touch with her mother.”

“But I thought—”

“Yes, Mom wasn’t aware—and I’m pretty sure Hope’s grandmother didn’t know about it, either. But about a year ago Veronica made contact.” He rubbed his eyes again. “Hope didn’t want anything to do with her, of course—she was raised on how horrible her mother was, after all, and she was abandoned. But she was curious, so she agreed to meet her. At the hunting camp.”

“Oh, that
is
bad.” I rubbed my eyes and took another slug from the vodka. It really was good.

He nodded. “But she swears she had no idea AFAR was going to take Mike or had anything to do with the tiger-napping—it was just as big a surprise to her as it was to everyone else moving him. She’s quite upset, honestly—she really loves that tiger.” He yawned and stood up. “I’m beat—I’m going back to bed. We can talk about this more in the morning.”

His bedroom door shut behind him. Mom finished her drink and put her glass down on the coffee table. “I think that’s a good idea—I’m pretty worn out.” She stood up and yawned, leaning down to kiss Frank on the forehead before going to her own room.

I followed Frank into our room. Once the door was closed behind us, he put his arms around me, kissing me with such force I backed up against the door. “So glad you’re okay,” he whispered in my ear, putting his hands into my armpits and lifting up.

I helped him by giving a little hop and put my legs around his waist. “I’m so sorry we missed your match, I wouldn’t blame you for being pissed,” I said, letting my hands drift down his back and coming to rest on his hard butt. I smiled at him. “Can’t wait to watch the recording. Was it awesome?”

He started nuzzling my neck. Some chills went down my spine, and I shivered. “You have no idea.” He turned around and walked over to the bed, still carrying me. He grinned at me, a devilish glint in his eye. “I’m still a little wound up. Up for some bed wrestling?” He pushed me down onto the bed and yanked his T-shirt up over his head.

Damn
,
but he is one sexy stud! I thanked the Universe again for my incredible good luck.

I winked. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The drive back to New Orleans that Wednesday morning seemed to fly by. Storm was already gone by the time we got out of bed, so we just showered and packed up what little we’d brought with us. We were on the road by ten. I checked in on Mom before we left, but she was sound asleep, so I didn’t want to wake her up to say good-bye.

I hadn’t slept well, even though the night had run late and Frank wore me out before we finally went to sleep. I kept waking up every half hour or so, still wrapped in Frank’s strong arms. I would lie there for a few moments, my eyes adjusting to the dark, until I drifted off into a miserable, unrestful half-sleep. I gave up around seven, made some coffee and took a shower. We stopped for a quick breakfast at Dunkin’ Donuts, and I slid down in my seat once we got back on I-10 East. I didn’t have to talk much, which was good because I wasn’t sure I could maintain a conversation. Frank filled in the gap by taking me through last night’s matches, which was a relief. I was proud of him, and listening to his descriptions of how the crowd cheered his every move made me regret missing the match even more than I had already.

Before I knew it, we were passing over the marshy lake estuary, which meant we were getting very close to the city.

A knot formed in my stomach. I took a deep breath. What if Frank’s nephew didn’t like me? What if I couldn’t relate to him? What if staying with us made things worse for him?

Get over yourself, bitch
,
I reminded myself.
This isn’t about you, it’s about what’s best for Taylor. You are who you are, and anything is going to be better for him than spending the summer in rural Alabama around a bunch of right-wing homophobic religious zealots. Mom and Dad did a pretty good job raising you—just follow their example and he’ll be fine.

Although the thought of an eighteen-year-old gay boy turned loose in the French Quarter after a lifetime of repression was more than just a little bit scary.

Rain had checked in with Frank last night after picking Taylor up at the airport, and that was all Frank had said about it. My sister is pretty cool, and since she’s not as wacky as the rest of the family, she would serve as a nice intro to the family for him. She’s married to a surgeon at Children’s Hospital, and they have a big house on State Street in Uptown. She does all the proper things a surgeon’s wife with society connections should do—charity work, food drives, fund-raisers, all of that. She is a member of the oldest ladies’ Mardi Gras krewe, Iris, and rides in their parade every year. (She always buries us in beads every year.) She is very well-liked and respected because she is very efficient and never lets any detail slip through the cracks.

She’s also a pretty awesome sister. She used to worry about me when I was single, and was always setting me up with guys she thought would treat me well and take care of me properly. It got annoying sometimes—Rain really had no idea of what I was looking for in a man—but I couldn’t get mad at her because she was coming from a good place.

We took the 90 West/Claiborne exit from I-10. Traffic was light, and in just a matter of minutes Frank was making a left turn onto State Street, right by the Ursulines Academy and the Our Lady of Prompt Succor church. State Street is a hidden delight of New Orleans that few tourists ever see, big beautiful homes with highly manicured lawns. The Bradley side of the family have had a ridiculously enormous house on State Street for well over a hundred years. Rain lived a few blocks away from them, closer to St. Charles Avenue.

“Don’t be nervous,” Frank said as he pulled into the driveway, grinning over at me. “He’s a teenager, not some kind of alien from outer space.” He shut the car off and unbuckled his seat belt. “Okay, I’m a little nervous. I haven’t seen Taylor since he was a little boy.”

Rain’s house is an enormous stone building sitting on a perfectly landscaped lot. There was a circular driveway, and her white Lexus SUV was parked by the front steps. The half-moon between the sidewalk and the driveway was filled with flowers and a small marble fountain with water shooting out of the mouths of the Three Graces. I never understood why they bought such a big house, frankly. It had five bedrooms and four bathrooms, and there were just the two of them and their dogs. Rain had never had any desire to have children, and her husband Jake pretty much went along with whatever Rain wanted. She had a maid come in twice a week to help keep the place clean.

I pulled out my keys and unlocked the front door. I also rang the doorbell to let Rain know we were here. Of course, ringing the doorbell set off a cacophony of dogs barking. Rain has two adorable (if incredibly spoiled) cavalier King Charles spaniels. She’d only meant to get one, but there were two puppies left when she visited the breeders—a lovely couple who lived near Monroe—and she couldn’t bear having to choose between them.

“Rain!” I called as the dogs came tearing down the front hall and leaped on me and Frank, their tongues out and tails wagging.

There was no answer. I could smell baking bread, so I walked down the hallway to the enormous gourmet kitchen in the rear of the house. Rain spent most of her time in the kitchen, despite the ridiculous size of her home and the fact my brother-in-law had given her one of the guest bedrooms as an office. Rain’s kitchen was the control center of the house. It was huge, almost as big as my entire apartment. There was an enormous island in the middle with a sink and butcher top. Copper pots and pans hung down from a lowered ceiling above the island that also served as a vent. She had two large refrigerators, as well as a stainless steel freezer in one corner of the room. The back wall was almost entirely made of windows, so there was plenty of natural light. A glass sliding door led out to a screened-in porch, which then opened out onto a deck with a enormous sunken hot tub. The backyard was an enormous tropical garden that Rain had designed herself and required a team of gardeners to prune, cut back, weed, water, and maintain. The kitchen’s view of the backyard made it seem like the house was in the middle of a forest, rather than a city—even the back fence was hidden by towering bamboo stalks.

In one corner of the kitchen was a sliding panel behind which was Rain’s computer desk, where she paid the bills and organized her charity work. She owned every conceivable kitchen gadget. She loved to cook and was always experimenting with new recipes. I never understood why she’d majored in business administration at Baylor—I always thought she should have gone to a cooking school. As I walked down the hallway I could hear voices talking in the kitchen, and the smell of the baking bread was overpowering. My mouth started watering and my stomach growled. I walked into the kitchen with Frank right behind me. A tall boy was standing with his back to us, shelling peas in a crimson T-shirt and long navy-blue board shorts. Rain was sitting on one of the stools at the island, sipping coffee from an enormous mug with
QUEEN
written across it in gold leaf.

She raised an eyebrow when she saw us. “Exciting trip to Baton Rouge, huh, guys?” She put the mug down and slid off the stool, offering her cheek to me.

I kissed her on the cheek as the tall boy turned around. I laughed. “You know us, Rain. Never a dull moment for the Bradleys, even when we’re in Baton Rouge.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Taylor turn around.

He was tall, six feet four at least—a few inches taller than Frank. Frank always said he’d been ridiculously skinny when he was a teenager—apparently it was in the Sobieski genes. Taylor was lean, probably prone to being thin with great difficulty gaining weight. His crimson T-shirt had the big script
A
that was the symbol of the University of Alabama on the front, and hung on his thin frame. He had blond hair bleached almost white by the sun, with bangs that curled slightly at the ends. His hair was cut in a short pageboy, and it was darker underneath. He had wide-set, round blue eyes so bright they almost glowed. A strong nose had dimpled cheeks on either side, with a strong chin and a wide mouth. He was tanned a dark golden brown, and the hair on his forearms was also bleached white. His shoulders were wide, and he had really long, gangly arms. His legs were slender and crisscrossed with veins and muscle striation, like his forearms.

He looked so much like Frank it took my breath away. I’d never really thought about what Frank must have looked like when he was young, but looking at his nephew I got a very clear picture.

He blushed and looked down at his feet. He mumbled “hey” in a quiet, adorably shy way.

Frank crossed to him swiftly in a few steps and hugged him. After a few seconds, Taylor hugged him back.

Rain nudged me with her elbow. “Let’s go out to the porch and give them a few minutes to get acquainted, shall we?”

I poured myself a cup of coffee and followed her out onto the screen porch, closing the sliding glass door behind me. The ceiling fans were turning, and I plopped down on the couch.

“Mom just called,” Rain said, crossing her short tanned legs. “Dufresne isn’t pressing charges. He says he just wants to forget the whole thing. Storm’s pretty relieved.” She laughed. “Mom really needs to mellow out a bit. I don’t like Dufresne either—he puts the
hole
in
asshole—
but she can’t go around slugging people.”

“She’s never going to change,” I replied, leaning back. We’d had some variation of this conversation any number of times over the years. “But I don’t know if I’d want her to.”

Rain is two years older than me and a year younger than Storm. Storm and I had been sent to Jesuit, an all boys’ school, while she went to McGehee, a school for wealthy society girls located on Prytania Street in the Garden District. Mom and Dad were avowed Wiccans and hated the pretensions of society, but also recognized the value of the education the private schools could provide. Every night over dinner they would “deprogram” us from the “lessons of privilege” we got at school. It was in junior high school that Rain started calling herself Rhonda. This rebellion against her hippie-style name at first was a huge concern to our parents until they realized she was just rebelling against her parents in the time-honored tradition of teens, and it was an expression of individuality rather than conformity.

And how else could you rebel against pot-smoking parents who pretty much let us do as we pleased?

Privately, she told me it was because “Rain’s just a fucking stupid name.”

She further rebelled by not only refusing to follow family tradition by going to Newcomb for college, but unlike Mom, who’d really rebelled by going to UNO, she’d gone to Baylor, where she met and married a poor country boy from the back country—the Rio Grande Valley near Harlingen—and put him through Tulane’s medical school. Now he was a surgeon based at Children’s Hospital, and she kept busy with her charities and the dogs.

And I couldn’t imagine a better older sister. She was
awesome.

She also adored both Frank and Colin.

“How did Mom seem about,” I hesitated, “about finding Veronica’s body? I was really worried about her last night. I’ve never seen her like that before.”

“She was upset still, but about Veronica being murdered more than anything else, I would say.” Rain sipped her coffee. “She was also pretty upset for missing Frank’s match.” She leaned over and patted my arm. “And making
you
miss it. Don’t worry, I DVRed it and can record it onto a DVD for you.” She winked at me. “He was amazing! I was so proud of him. And he looks so good in those trunks.” She leaned back with a sigh. “I’m thinking about getting Tom some.”

“Tom would never wear a Speedo, would he?” I tried to picture my brother-in-law in a Speedo, and couldn’t. Tom was in really good shape—he worked with a trainer three times a week and did a lot of cardio—but he was really reserved.

“He wouldn’t in public.” Rain giggled. “But he’s a bit of a freak in private.”

I held up my hand. “Stop. TMI. There are some things about you I’d rather not know.”

“Fair enough.” She sighed. “I feel so bad for Hope,” she went on, not missing a beat. “No matter how crazy our mother gets—and she gets pretty crazy—I can’t imagine how awful it must have been to have that nutjob as your mother. And then to have her killed…” Her voice trailed off, and she shook her head sadly.

“You know Hope?” I stared at her, surprised.

She nodded. “The Porteries live over on Napoleon Avenue between Prytania and Magazine. You must know her grandmother…she’s one of Mama Bradley’s friends. Grace Porterie? You don’t remember her? She’s short, kind of solidly built? Always wears her pearls?” When I shook my head, she went on, “You’d know her if you saw her. I used to babysit Hope sometimes—she’s always been a sweet little girl, and smart as a whip. Nothing at all like that mother of hers…I suppose I shouldn’t be disrespectful now that she’s dead, but I can’t imagine abandoning my child like that.” She reached down and scratched one of the dogs’ heads. “I wouldn’t abandon the dogs, let alone a kid. What kind of mother does that?” She took another sip of her coffee. “I suppose Hope was lucky her grandparents were willing to take her. Can you imagine having a mother like that? Who killed someone?”

“No.” Mom had been arrested any number of times, but the charges were usually dropped or suspended. Mom’s arrests had something to do with some kind of protest or an act of civil disobedience, like the time she chained herself to the gates of a nuclear power plant in Oklahoma.

Before the Troy Dufresne incident on Monday, she’d only once been arrested for assault.

Of course, she’d slugged a cop, but videotape showed she was provoked and the charges had been thrown out.

But murder? I couldn’t imagine Mom ever killing anyone.

“And you might have known better than to go out there with Mom—that’s always a recipe for trouble.” Her eyes twinkled. “You just can’t get away from stumbling over bodies, can you?”

I gave her a dirty look. “You make it sound like it happens all the time.”