Who Dat Whodunnit (10 page)

“Frank’s on his way to Biloxi—he has practice.” I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice. “I’m glad you’re back—he’s got a title shot this Saturday.”

Colin whistled. “Cool! I knew he’d do well with that promotion! So, he’s a big star now?”

“Denny”—Denny Whistler owned Gulf Coast Professional Wrestling, the promotion Frank wrestled for—“says Frank gets more fan mail than any two other guys in the show combined, which is amazing—especially for a bad guy.”

“Bad guys are more fun—and I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that he has the best body in the show,” Colin observed. He let out a sigh. “But it’s a bummer he’s not home. I sure hope you’re up for some fun this afternoon.”

I thought about it for a moment. Depending on traffic, he was anywhere from about ten to twenty minutes from home. I could interview Emily quickly, and possibly get back to the apartment around the same time he got there. “Well, I’m not home right now—I’m on a case, actually. I have to interview a potential witness, but I should be back to the apartment around the same time you do if I hurry.”

“A case?” That got his attention, which was typical. Colin loved his work. “What’s the case?”

“I don’t want to get into it right now,” I replied, glancing out the door into the store. Emily was ringing up the espresso drink I’d heard her making, talking to a guy in a full-length trench coat with a gold wool Saints cap on his head. I added in a whisper, “The longer I spend talking to you, the longer it is before I get back to the apartment.”

“Okay, then, back to work,” Colin said cheerfully before whispering into my ear some of the things he was going to do to me when we were both home.

“See you in a bit,” I breathed into the phone, clicking the call off. I leaned against the door frame and took a few deep breaths.

Damn
, he could really get me going.

Emily Hunter was in her late twenties with dark hair shaved down to a military-length buzz cut. I’d never seen her hair any longer than that—she was meticulous about keeping it short. She had a round face and lovely oval green eyes. Emily always exuded positive energy—she was one of the most upbeat people I’d ever had the privilege to know. She’d come to New Orleans for Mardi Gras seven years earlier and stayed. She’d gotten a master’s degree by the time she was twenty-one, and had spent a year in Mexico City teaching English at an incredibly expensive private girls’ school. “I felt trapped, though,” she explained to me once, “and it just seemed so wrong—all those spoiled girls at the school and all the poverty just outside the front gates—it was so unfair, and wrong, so I decided to save as much money as I could and do all the things I’d always wanted to do.” Mom and Dad had practically adopted her, and she’d been working at the Devil’s Weed for years. She had an amazing singing voice, but I hadn’t had a chance to see her perform with her new band, Huck Finn. She loved to sing, and frankly had a better voice than most music industry superstars—but she had no ambitions to use her voice to attain fame and stardom. She sang because she enjoyed it. “And if I ever stop enjoying it, I’ll stop doing it,” she told me once.

“Scotty? You okay?”

I looked up and smiled at Emily, who was standing in the storeroom door. “Yeah, just give me a second. I was just talking to Colin—he’s on his way home.”

She gave me a knowing smile. “I can imagine. You want some coffee?”

I nodded, following her back into the store. “I also need to talk to you about something, if you’ve got a few minutes.”

Emily filled a large cup from one of the large thermoses behind the counter, added some half-and-half and a package of Sweet’n Low before stirring it and handing the hot cup to me. I took a sip and let the heat radiate through my body. “You know exactly how I like it.” I beamed at her. “Perfect.”

“I’ve been making you coffee for going on seven years now,” she replied with a wink. “I’d have to be an idiot to not know how you like it. And all appearances to the contrary, I am not an idiot.”

She gave me her big grin. “What do you want to talk to me about?”

“The party Sunday night.” I leaned against the counter.

Her face got dreamy. “Wasn’t that
awesome
?
I still can’t believe we’re in the Super Bowl.” She shook her head. “It’s so weird—I grew up in Chicago, but I never cared about football till I moved here. I still don’t care about football outside of the Saints, though.” She laughed. “I didn’t get home until eight o’clock Monday morning, I just didn’t want the night to ever end. Did you?”

I smiled. “No. Sometimes I still can’t believe we’re in the Super Bowl.” I hesitated, trying to figure out the most diplomatic way of asking the next question.
Fuck it, it’s Emily, just go ahead and ask, she’s practically family.
“You didn’t happen to notice if anyone went into Mom’s junk drawer Sunday night, did you?”

She frowned. “The one in the corner? Why?” Her eyes got wide. “Oh, no, is something missing?”

I did a double take. “Mom’s gun is missing—and it’s not like it was a big secret she kept it there.”

She scratched her head. “I don’t remember seeing anyone in that corner, but it’s possible, I suppose.” She frowned. “And after the kick, everyone went nuts and it was just crazy—everything’s really a blur after that. Someone could have taken it then, I guess. Why? Has something happened?”

She’d find out soon enough, so I didn’t have a problem with telling her. “Someone killed Tara Bourgeois last night.”

“Tara Bourgeois?” She made a face. “That homophobic bitch?” Her jaw tightened. “I’m not surprised—only that it took this long.” She narrowed her eyes. “But what does Mom’s gun have to do with—oh.” Realization dawned on her face.

I sighed. “My cousin Jared was dating her, and he found her. Mom’s gun was there.”

“But how is that even possible?” she whispered. She looked confused, and her face had gone pale.

“Someone must have taken the gun during the party Sunday night, or sometime yesterday—but no one was in the apartment yesterday until late last night.”

She nodded. “So, it stands to reason someone took the gun during the game.”

“Did your band mates know about the gun?”

“You don’t think—”

“Everyone at the party Sunday night has to be checked out, Em.”

“I suppose you’re right, but I can’t imagine—” She gnawed on her lower lip. “I don’t even want to think someone in Huck Finn is a killer. I mean, they’re a great group, Scotty.”

“How well do you really know them? You’ve only been in Huck Finn a few months, right?”

She sighed. “Yeah. I met Ken first—Ken Taylor,” she added as I started scribbling notes. “Ken’s not in Huck Finn, he’s Gary’s—Gary Musson’s boyfriend, and he does a lot of our publicity for us. He works for a P.R. firm in the CBD. Destry asked me to sing with him one Saturday night and Ken was here.” Destry was a longtime friend of the family. He taught music at NOCCA, and every Saturday night he sat in the Devil’s Weed and played his guitar for tips. “After we were done, he told me he knew a band that needed a new lead singer, would I be interested? I thought why not? I’ve never been in a band—it’d be something new. And you know I’m all about new experiences, right? He set up an audition for me, and after I sang a few songs with them they hired me.” She grinned. “Ken and Gary live over on Dauphine Street, Mike and Gia share a place in the Marigny.” She grabbed her cell phone from her bag, stored under the counter, and read off their cell phone numbers, which I dutifully wrote down.

“What else can you tell me about them?”

“Gary’s the afternoon bartender at the Saint, over on Magazine Street. Mike’s a personal trainer at some gym on St. Charles Avenue, and Gia works at a tanning place.” Emily shrugged. “Mike’s originally from Alabama, I think, but Gia, Gary, and Ken are all from New Orleans, I think. Ken and Gary—they’ve been a couple for about five years, I think. Gia and Mike live together but they’re just friends. I think Gia’s bi but don’t know for sure. Mike—I don’t know about Mike. I think he’s gay, but I’ve never seen him with anyone, male or female. I probably am just stereotyping because he’s a trainer. He’s in a good shape, takes care of himself, always dresses well. He might just be a—what’s the word? Metrosexual?” She shuddered. “I hate that word.”

I wasn’t fond of it myself. “Do you know if any of them have a connection to Tara Bourgeois?”

Emily poured herself a cup of hot water and dropped a green tea bag into it as she pondered her answer. “No one ever mentioned her, no.” She sipped the tea and let out a sigh of relief. “But we really don’t talk about anything serious, you know? It’s all about the music—at least for me.”

“Did you know any of the other people at the party? Besides family, I mean.”

“Well, Cara—Cara White, she comes in all the time,” Emily mused. “Her boss, Lurleen, comes in every once in a while but she isn’t very friendly. Cara’s nice.” She smiled. “She sometimes gives me a ride to Whole Foods when she’s going, or picks stuff up for me if I can’t go with her. And Dominique I know—we played at Domino’s a couple of weekends ago. And Jesse? Was that his name? He came with Dominique. He’s a bartender at Domino’s. I don’t know if they’re a couple, but he flirted with me a lot when we were performing there. And of course I knew Father Dan. And David. But there was another girl—”

“Jamie Oliver.” I supplied the name from my list.

“I’d never met her before. She was strange.”

I didn’t remember her at all, which was annoying. I made another mental note to stop smoking so much pot. “How do you mean, strange?”

“She kept to herself most of the night.” Emily closed her eyes, remembering. “She didn’t really seem into the game at all. I kept wondering why she was even there. She didn’t really talk much to anyone, or drink much. She certainly didn’t smoke any pot, at least none that I saw. So why was she there?” She snapped her fingers. “There you go. There’s your person who wasn’t into the game.”

I smothered a smile.
She was there because Mom is trying to find you a girlfriend
,
I thought but didn’t say out loud. Instead I just shrugged and made a note next to Jamie’s name:
Wasn’t into the game
.

Just because Mom was playing matchmaker by inviting her didn’t clear her of taking the gun.

Aloud I said, “I’ve long given up on trying to figure out why Mom and Dad invite people over.”

“They do like to collect strays,” Emily sipped her tea.

A ringing bell signaled the front door opening, and a young man in a Saints jacket and cap strode toward the counter. Emily looked at me, and I closed my notebook. “If I think of anything else I’ll call,” I said aloud, but she’d already turned to her customer.

I glanced at my watch. Colin would be at the apartment at any minute, so I walked out the front door. A blast of cold wind chilled me right to the bone immediately. I swore under my breath and started walking faster up Royal Street. Lady Gaga started singing from my coat pocket once I was safely across Dumaine, so I pulled my phone out.

“Hey, Storm.”

“I’m on my way over to Tara’s apartment,” he said. “
You fucking moron, that’s why you have a turn signal!
Sorry about that,” he added quickly. “Stupid bitch in a white Lexus thinks she’s the only person on the road. Anyway, they didn’t arrest Jared, but he’s riding over with Venus and Blaine, and I’m following. What did Mom say?”

I filled him in on the timeline, trying to walk faster.
Damn, it’s cold.
The wind was relentless, and every so often I’d pass a pedestrian going the opposite direction, trying to swerve out of their way to avoid a collision. I had to stop at the St. Philip corner as a line of cars made their way toward Decatur. I debated ducking into the coffee shop on the corner for another cup of coffee—not that I needed more caffeine, but to keep my hands warm.

“And you’ve got the list of people who were there Sunday night?” Storm said. “Good, good, start tracking them down, talking to them. Do some background checks on them. Get Frank to help—I’ll come by your place after I’m done here and we can have a powwow.”

“Frank’s on his way to Biloxi,” I reminded him. “And Colin’s back—he just called from the cab—”

“Excellent!” Storm enthused. “
You stupid fucking asshole!
Sorry—what was I saying?”

I switched the phone to my other, non-ringing ear. “I really wish you wouldn’t scream at other drivers while you’re on the phone with me,” I complained. “And you were saying you’re glad Colin is here to help me.” I could have easily started one of those stupid sibling arguments with him—
Do you think I can’t handle a case on my own?—
but I like to think that now that I’m in my early thirties I’m above that sort of thing.

As long as I just think it and don’t say it out loud, I figure I’m okay.

“Sorry about the yelling.” Storm’s tone was sheepish. “And I know what you’re thinking. Yes, I think you can handle it on your own without help. I’m just glad Colin is here to help only because you two can split the list and get through it faster, is all. If Frank weren’t in Biloxi it would go even faster.”

I smothered a grin. Apparently I’m not the only psychic in the family. I started across St. Philip Street. “I’m heading home to meet Colin now—”

“I know he’s been gone for a few months, but don’t get distracted.” Storm ordered. “I’m pretty sure Mom’s in the clear for the murder, but it was still her gun and I want to get this all cleared up as soon as possible.”