Bayou Hero (8 page)

She smiled wanly. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

“Sort of. Mr. DeVille’s doing it all.”

“Oh, Aunt Louisianne will hate that. She’s held the honor for most outrageous funeral for Uncle Orland for twenty years. Mr. DeVille will surely top that for Daddy’s service.”

Landry vaguely remembered Uncle Orland’s passage, drawing a smile. “How do you top a spectacle? Harp-playing cats? Flying chimps swooping in to carry the casket away?”

Mary Ellen tried to keep her expression somber, but a tiny smile worked free. “Daddy did like a spectacle—as long as you, Mama and I weren’t involved.” When Landry pulled a stool closer and sat, she grasped his hand. “I’m so sorry I let you down today, Landry. Finding out about Miss Viola, I just couldn’t—I’m sorry you had to go to the funeral home alone.”

“I didn’t go alone. Special Agent Kingsley went with me.”

Mary Ellen’s brows arched with surprise. “I guess that’s part of the navy’s service to the grieving family.”

Only if the family member is a person of interest in the murder.
Mary Ellen was so naive, so convinced of the natural goodness in everyone, that it probably hadn’t occurred to her yet that she and Landry were almost definitely people of interest.

Her fingers tightened on his hand, and shadows darkened her eyes. “Why would anyone hurt Miss Viola? She was the sweetest person in the world and would have given that precious ruby off her finger to help someone in need. God, Landry, it’s like someone has it in for our family. First Mama goes off to God knows where, then Daddy dies, and then Miss Viola—I don’t understand what’s going on!”

She drew a sobbing breath and smiled through her tears. “Bad things come in threes, they say, so the Jackson family has officially had its three. I hereby declare that nothing else will happen to us.”

Landry hoped like hell she was right.

But deep down inside, he doubted it.

Chapter 5

“I
swear, Jeremiah Jackson and Viola Fulsom had enough family, friends and acquaintances to fill a good-sized book.”

In the process of tearing open a package of vending-machine cookies, Alia glanced across the scarred conference room table at Jimmy. Though her ex had a tendency to exaggerate, this time he’d stated God’s honest truth. The Jackson and Landry families had taken to heart the advice to go forth and multiply. Add in their social, political and charitable contacts, as well as the admiral’s navy associates, and she and Jimmy had more names than they and their fellow detectives/special agents could interview in a year’s time.

Jimmy ran a hand through his hair. “You think the murders are connected?”

“You think they’re coincidence?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Yeah, like me marrying you.”

He grinned. “Like you divorcing me.”

“Like me not killing you.”

“Anyone ever tell you that holding a grudge is bad for your health?”

Not nearly as bad as sleeping around should have been for his. The first time, when she’d heard the news through the law enforcement grapevine, she’d been furious as hell. By the last time, when she’d actually walked in on him with his girlfriend of the week, she hadn’t felt anything. Their marriage had ended in the sixty seconds it had taken her brain to process the scene, and her heart had been safe ever since.

There was a part of her that wouldn’t mind walking on the wild side. Just a little.

But, damn, why did the first image that popped into her mind at that longing have to be Landry Jackson?

Leaning back in his chair, Jimmy fixed his gaze on the ceiling. “What do you think of the son?”

She blinked, caught off guard that Jimmy had spoken of Landry just seconds after she’d envisioned being wild and reckless and him. Clearing her throat, she said, “Landry?”

What she thought of him was probably what every other woman did: damn, he was gorgeous. Those eyes, that hair, the body, the brooding bad-boy aura... His smile was none too shabby, either.

But every other woman could appreciate him up close and personal. Alia couldn’t.

With a twinge of regret, she pushed the personal stuff to the back of her mind and focused on the conversation.

“Yeah, Landry,” Jimmy said, oblivious. “He was estranged from his parents. He stands to inherit a boatload of money.”

Money was always such a good motive for murder, hence the standard question: who profited from the victim’s death? In this case, though, she didn’t believe Jackson’s murder involved money at all. “As far as he knows, he’s out of the will, and he doesn’t seem to care.”

“You believe him?”

She bit a cookie in half and considered it while chewing. “You’ve seen his financials. He lives within his means. He’s never been arrested, nothing to suggest a problem with drinking, drugs, gambling or women.” And he’d sounded believable. Sure, she’d met people who could lie with utter sincerity—Jimmy was a prime example—but she would bet a dozen beignets that Landry wasn’t one of them.

“Yeah. I believed him. Besides, his alibi checked out. He was playing poker until nearly six.” She popped another cookie into her mouth.

“Okay, so he’s off the suspect list.”

Alia leaned forward and twisted his laptop around so she could see what he’d typed. She snorted. “When did we take Mary Ellen Davison off the suspect list?”

“Come on, look at her.”

“Look at what? Her big brown eyes brimming with tears? Her Cupid’s bow mouth? Her sweet, sad smile? The neon lights around her flashing
damsel in distress
?”

“She’s the original steel magnolia. She’s not gonna stab someone thirty-some times.”

Slumping back in her chair, Alia pretended to thump her forehead with her palm. “The
steel
part of
steel magnolia
refers to strength, doofus.”

He wasn’t the least bit fazed by his mistake or her insult. “No matter what it means, Mary Ellen Davison didn’t kill her daddy or the old lady. She’d be more likely to love someone to death.”

He was right about that, Alia conceded. Mary Ellen was delicate, the kind of feminine flower who used to make her feel too tall, too thin, too flat chested, too
un
feminine. Ah, she remembered well the teenage days when she was first getting into boys, when so many of them were into girlie girls like Mary Ellen.

What kind of woman was Landry into?

The kind that didn’t wear a badge or credentials and carry a gun, she thought as she took her turn to study the ceiling. Probably someone as impressive as he was, with a great face, great body, though probably not as fragile as his sister. Like Jimmy, Landry probably didn’t favor a particular type—redhead, brunette, blonde; white, black, Latina, Asian; working girl or career woman. Pretty, hot-blooded, cooking skills a plus but not required.

She washed down the last cookie with half a can of pop, then asked, “Aren’t you ready for lunch yet?”

“Holy hell, sweet pea, it’s barely 12:15. Where do you put all those calories? If I ate like you do, I’d be too big to fit through the door.”

“That’s because you’re lazy. I heard there’s a really good restaurant near here called Mama’s Table. You been there?”

“I don’t like Vietnamese food, remember?”

She smirked as she stood again, swinging the strap of her bag over one shoulder. “Oh, Jimmy, your ego would shrivel if you knew how much I’ve forgotten about you.” It wasn’t true, but he didn’t know it. She remembered the first time they’d gone to visit her parents, the first time they’d visited her mother’s parents. The way he’d carried on, a reasonable person would have been forgiven for thinking he was going to starve to death after his first taste of
pho ga
, a savory chicken and noodle soup,
bo luc lac
and
mi xao don
. He’d hated lemongrass and cilantro and
nuoc mam
,
three of her favorite food items in the world.

Landry apparently had a finer appreciation for her culture’s food.

When they walked out of the building, she automatically turned right, and Jimmy followed her. She wouldn’t force him to eat something he didn’t like, so she headed for a little Cajun place they’d frequented in their years together.

“How are your mom and dad?” he asked, holding the restaurant door for her.

“They’re fine. Mom still hates you.”

“Good to know.”

“I talked to Dad last night. He knew Jackson.”

Jimmy nodded absently, checking out the hostess who led them to a table. “Anything useful to add?”

“Nothing we haven’t already heard.” She didn’t bother with the menu the petite blonde set in front of her but looked around for the waitperson instead. Quint, a thin, young redhead and the best waiter in five square blocks, signaled one minute with his finger when he saw her, delivered drinks to another table, then swooped over to their table.

“Kingsley and DiBiase, my favorite cops.” His accent was pure Southern drawl, his blue eyes shifting from her to Jimmy. “Aw, don’t tell me you two are back together.”

“Not in this lifetime,” she replied.

His smile spread as he gave Jimmy an appreciative look. It made her ex’s cheeks turn as red as Quint’s hair.

Alia ordered her usual—a shrimp cocktail, a basket of warm bread and jambalaya, along with sweet tea—and Jimmy ordered a shrimp po’boy and bottled water.

“I talked to more people wearing khaki yesterday than I can count,” Jimmy said once Quint left to get their drinks. His reference was to the standard uniform worn by senior enlisted navy personnel and officers. She had interviewed plenty of sailors in her career; she’d been happy to let him have a run at them. “Nobody had anything interesting to say. He was a good officer, he was big on discipline and order, so on and so on. Funny thing, though—none of them knew the first thing about his family. Weren’t even sure he had one.”

“My dad never met Jackson’s wife, knew he had a daughter, didn’t have a clue there was a son.”

“You find out what caused the split between them?”

“Nope.” She tore apart a piece of still-warm rye bread, breathing deeply of its aroma. “Miss Viola knew, but she didn’t tell me anything he didn’t want me to know.” After a pause to butter the bread, she added, “Landry said he wished he’d killed Jeremiah.”

The comment made no more impact on Jimmy than it had on her. “That’s one of the problems with homicide. A lot of people who get murdered tend to do something to deserve it. We just have to find out what that was.”

And why Miss Viola had to die, too.

* * *

Friday promised to be the hottest day so far this year. Given a choice, Landry wouldn’t leave this block. He would get a mess of shrimp from the restaurant across the street, pick up a newspaper and a tall glass of iced tea, settle into a chair in the courtyard near the fountain and let the lazy breezes and the sharp-edged rays of the sun lull him into a stupor.

But he didn’t have a choice.

Facing the mirror over the bureau, he tried one last time to knot the tie draped around his neck without any more success than the first three times. He swore, thought how Jeremiah would react to his inability to tie a simple knot and smiled tautly.

The light gray suit was uncomfortable. He had no use for dressy clothes, so he’d bought it just for this occasion. The dress shirt had a crisp, freshly pressed smell to it, and the shoes, also new, made him wish for sandals. There was a reason he lived in jeans, cargo shorts and T-shirts or aloha shirts. They suited him, didn’t choke him and didn’t remind him in the least of the life he’d escaped.

Yet in the end, the bastard had managed to drag him back into it.

Leaving the tie dangling, he scooped up his keys and cell and left the apartment. The family—extended to include a few aunts, uncles and cousins—were meeting at Mary Ellen and Scott’s, where the family cars would pick them up for delivery to the church. With all the lying that would be going on, he hoped they made it through the service without God striking someone dead.

By the time he reached the Davison house, his nerves were humming. He had to park halfway down the block and walk back, steeling himself for seeing relatives he hardly knew anymore. But there were trade-offs, and they leaped into his arms the minute Geneva let him in the door, getting his attention while he spared no more than a glance for the somber group in the drawing room.

“Uncle Landry!” seven-year-old Mariela squealed.

Immediately nine-year-old Faith shushed her. “We’re s’posed to be quiet!”

Mariela scowled at her. “You’re not the boss.”

“I am, too. The bigger kid is always the boss of the little one. Isn’t that right, Uncle Landry?”

He settled a girl on each hip, their dresses—dark green for Mariela, dark red for Faith—vivid against his gray suit. “Sorry, sweetie. That’s not always the case.” Ducking his head, he whispered conspiratorially, “I’m bigger than your mom, and I can’t boss her around at all.”

Mariela stuck her tongue out at Faith, who retaliated with a pinch. Though they looked like pint-size versions of their mother with brown hair, dark eyes and porcelain skin, they’d been known to indulge in more than a few brawls, like their uncle. The thought made him smile.

“Can I wear your scarf?” Mariela pulled his tie free of his collar and wrapped it around her neck. “Do I look pretty?”

“Gorgeous. But I’m afraid I’ve got to wear it. In fact, I need to find your mom so she can help me put it on.”

With a roll of her eyes, Mariela wrapped it twice around his neck, tucked the loose ends into his collar, then cupped her little hands to his face. “Now
you
look gorgeous.”

Faith gave a long-suffering sigh. “Mama’s in the kitchen.”

He let them slide to the floor and strode down the hall to the last doorway before the sunroom. The caterers were at work, covering every surface in the large kitchen with trays, bowls and pans of food. They hurried about, avoiding collisions practically every time they turned around, intent on their work, paying no attention to Mary Ellen, seated at the small table out of the way, a glass of iced water in front of her.

“Hey.” Landry nudged her as he pulled out a chair to join her. “You okay?”

Though she gave him a smile, her face was as pale as the starched napkins stacked two feet high on the counter behind her. The sadness in her eyes wrenched at him, reminding him
why
he’d had no choice in coming today. “I’m okay. Lord, can you believe we have to do this again tomorrow for Miss Viola?”

He nodded grimly. He’d got a call from Brett Fulsom yesterday.

Her voice dropped to a quavery whisper. “I wonder where Mama is. I wonder if she knows....”

Landry wondered if she knew, was she celebrating? Deeply relieved? Or was it possible she might/could/did miss the man they were well rid of?

“Why would she disappear like that? She loved Daddy. He loved her. With his retirement coming up, they were going to have time for each other, to travel and just enjoy each other.” Mary Ellen’s breath caught in a hiccup. “Scott thinks she left him, but he’s wrong. Mama would never do that...would she?”

This would be the perfect moment for some nearly forgotten family member to come into the room or for one of the catering people to drop a load of glassware. He looked around for a distraction, but no one wanted attention, not even his nieces, who had mastered the art of interruption before the end of the days they were born.

Then Mary Ellen’s cell phone chirped, and he stood with a great rush of relief. He caught her attention, waved, and she wiggled her index finger, something she’d started when a pacifier had still been one of the most important things in her world.

Back in the hallway, he listened to the voices from the front of the house, an even mix of men and women, from places all around the country but each of them sounding as if they’d been born and raised on the bayou. You could take the family out of the South, but it just reclaimed them the instant they set foot back on Louisiana soil. He didn’t dislike most of them. They were like any other family—some friendly, some not, some barely tolerable.