Who Dat Whodunnit (20 page)

“You weren’t married to Skipper, either,” Dad replied with a sad sigh. “MiMi told me—oh, it doesn’t matter anymore. It was a long time ago, and Skipper’s different now.”

“What are you two talking about?” I was completely lost. “I don’t understand.”

Dad looked at his hands. “Skipper used to get violent when he was drunk, Scotty. He used to—he used to hit Bethany. She left when she”—he swallowed—“when she had a miscarriage.”

Mom’s face went white, red, and then back to white again. She got out of her chair, walked over to the counter, and whirled around. “Are you telling me Skipper caused her miscarriage?”

“That’s what MiMi said,” Dad said miserably. “Skipper denies it, and Papa and Bethany won’t talk about it. It’s why she left.”

“And she left Jared behind?” I choked the words out. “Wasn’t she—”

“That’s why Papa had him committed.” Mom ran her hands over her head. “I cannot believe you never told me any of this. Why, John?”

“Because I didn’t know for sure, Cecile.” He looked so miserable I felt bad for him. “All I know is what MiMi told me, and you know she’s not reliable.” He shrugged.

“Poor Jared,” Mom said as Colin burst through the door with the keys.

“What’s going on? What did I miss?” He looked from Mom to Dad to Storm and finally at me.

“I’ll tell you,” I said, standing up. I just wanted to get as far away as possible. Colin nodded and followed me out the front door. As we walked quickly back to our apartment, I filled him in on the little family revelation he’d just missed.

“Poor Jared,” he said as I unlocked the gate and we walked to the back of our building.

I didn’t say anything as we went up the stairs. It was hard for me to process, really. Uncle Skipper had always smelled of liquor—I couldn’t remember ever being around him when he wasn’t drinking. It was just one of those things, like the sun comes up every morning and the river flows into the Gulf. Uncle Skipper always drank. I’d never seen him violent or angry, though—not once. But how old was I when Bethany left him? I barely remembered her from my childhood.

But what I really didn’t want was to feel sorry for Jared.

As I changed into a black pair of slacks and a white shirt, I tried to remember if I’d ever liked Jared when we were kids. I couldn’t. He was always spoiled, and blameless—even when he did something wrong, the rest of us were blamed “because we were older and knew better.” He cried whenever he wanted attention, or when the older kids didn’t want to do something he wanted to—which never failed to bring an adult on the run. The adult inevitably would hug and pet Jared while scolding us.

And he just got worse as he got older, I thought as I knotted a black tie. But am I being fair or holding on to childhood grudges?

I didn’t remember Uncle Skipper being committed.

What had Mom called it—“the revolving door of stepmothers”?

I grabbed my black leather jacket and sat down on the couch. I got the cards out, shuffled, and laid them out on the coffee table. I frowned. The meaning was inconclusive, which was kind of annoying.

“Come on, Scotty,” Colin called down the hallway. “Let’s get going—we’re going to have to deal with traffic as it is.”

We hurried down to the lot on Chartres Street where Mom parked the Prius. It was getting dark, and cold rain was pouring down in sheets. By the time we were safely inside the car, my pants were soaked through from the knee down. My teeth were chattering. Colin started the car and turned the heat up full blast. We headed out of the Quarter to the I-10 on-ramp beyond Armstrong Park. As we headed around the curve, I could see rush-hour traffic was barely crawling.

“Do you really think anyone at Dove Ministry is going to talk to us?” I said to break the silence, which was starting to get on my nerves. “What should our cover story be?”

“Don’t turn around, but I think there’s a car following us,” Colin said, glancing into the rearview mirror again.

I felt my stomach drop, and I shivered. “Are you sure? I mean, the traffic is pretty thick.”

“There’s a midsize car back there. It followed us all the way up Dumaine and onto the highway.” He shrugged. “Sure, it’s rush hour and a lot of people are heading out to the ’burbs, but it’s still kind of curious. I have a gut feeling about it—and my gut feelings are never wrong. It could be the same car that tried to run us down yesterday. It’s the same type.”

It was taking all of my self-control not to turn around for a look. I glanced into the sideview mirror right outside my window. It was speckled with moisture, and all I could make out in the gloom was a row of headlights.

But if Colin said someone was following us, someone was following us.

I closed my eyes.
Don’t panic, don’t worry about it—Colin is a trained operative. If you’re going to be followed by bad guys, who better to be driving than Colin?

So instead of worrying I started trying to put the pieces together.

What Lurleen Rutledge had told us was a pretty awful story, but at the same time her alibi was Cara, and vice versa—and how trustworthy was that? Her story had rung true—but wasn’t it also entirely possible Lurleen had not called her daughter but had gone out to her house to confront her? And if she arrived after Emily had left the gun, she could have just as easily shot her own hypocritical daughter—the tears and the grief wouldn’t be any less real.

So, I couldn’t cross Lurleen off the list of suspects. Cara could also have done it, but I didn’t see a motive for her. Her only connection to Marina was through Lurleen, and she had no connection to Tara.

That was the other thing—Tara. Both women had been killed with the same gun, both women were involved in planning this big homophobic rally. Maybe the killer was some gay man or lesbian who’d finally had enough and decided to kill them both.

I reached down and turned on the radio, which was set to WWNO, the station from the University of New Orleans. WWNO was devoted to all things New Orleans and was affiliated with NPR. The newscaster was talking about some bill going before Congress—some reform bill for Wall Street that obviously had no chance of being passed or implemented.

The car continued creeping forward, and out of the corner of my eye I could see Colin occasionally looking back into the rearview mirror. He signaled and changed lanes as we went around the turn just past the Superdome. I started to ask if he still thought the car was following us but thought better of it when I noticed his lips were compressed into a tight line.

That wasn’t a good sign.

“An anti-gay marriage rally planned for this Saturday in New Orleans will continue, despite the murder of one of the chief organizers and one of the speakers,” the monotone-voiced woman said. I turned up the volume.

“Peggy MacGillicudy, the executive director of Protect American Marriage, released a joint statement with Reverend Dick Werner of the Dove Ministry of Truth, a megachurch based in Kenner, a suburb of New Orleans. MacGillicudy and Reverend Werner are going forward with the rally despite what they call ‘the recent tragedies perpetrated on our movement by the Homosexual Agenda’s terrorists.’ The Louisiana governor is considering calling out the National Guard for fear of violence at the rally.”

Colin hit a button and the station changed to one playing soft jazz. “That bullshit makes me sick,” he said in a low voice, glancing again into the rearview mirror. Traffic was moving a little faster now—about twenty miles per hour. “Homosexual terrorists, my ass—that stupid bitch should head to the Middle East sometime if she wants to see some fucking terrorists.”

“You know, that same thought has crossed my mind, Colin,” I replied, looking out the window. “If it weren’t for Mom’s gun, it wouldn’t be that far of a reach to think it could be just that—some gay or lesbian who got sick of the persecution, of the hate, wanting to get some of our own back.”

“That MacGillicudy woman and Reverend Werner should just be glad that most gays are law-abiding,” he went on grimly. “How many teenagers have killed themselves because of things those two have said? How many gays have been beaten or killed by thugs thinking they’re doing God’s work? Those two just egg that kind of shit on, and when it happens take no responsibility for it.” He glanced in the rearview mirror again. “They should be grateful their churches aren’t being bombed and no one opens fire at their stupid hate rallies.”

Time to change that subject
,
I thought. “The thing that I don’t get about all of this is the gun.” I scratched my forehead. “How could someone have known Emily would leave Mom’s gun at Marina’s? No one could have. Someone went over there, saw the gun, and seized the opportunity? And then figured, what the hell, maybe I’ll get a chance to kill Tara, too? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s because you’re trying to make sense out of something that doesn’t make sense.” Colin shrugged. “Criminals aren’t in their right minds as a rule, Scotty, and what they do doesn’t make sense. A lot of things don’t make sense in this world. That’s why there’s religion. People can’t make sense out of a senseless world, so they decide it must be part of some big master plan they can’t comprehend, and have to put faith in the unknown that there’s a reason for it all.”

“That’s kind of cynical.”

“Maybe. But isn’t it cynical for Werner and MacGillicudy to manipulate other people’s beliefs to advance their own agenda?” Colin’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Religion is supposed to be a comfort, you know? Not a reason to kill.”

A suicide bomber had killed Colin’s mother and siblings when he was in his late teens. That was why he’d joined the Mossad in the first place. He’d eventually tired of the violence and resigned—and eventually wound up going to work for Blackledge.

I touched his arm, and his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He glanced over at me and smiled. He looked into the rearview mirror and frowned. “The car’s still back there, about two cars back, keeping pace with us but always staying two cars behind us.”

I swallowed. “The traffic should let up after the Causeway interchange. Maybe you can try to lose him then.”

“I’m not sure we should lose him,” he said idly.

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Why not?”

“Doesn’t it make more sense to catch him?” He gave me a sly wink. “That way we can question him, maybe get to the bottom of this whole thing. I’m pretty sure it’s the same car that tried to kill us yesterday.”

I bit my lower lip.

I’ve been in a car chase before, and it’s not a lot of fun. But given how heavy traffic was, I didn’t think there was much of a chance of it happening until we passed Causeway Boulevard—and we would be taking the Clearview exit a mile past it. I scrunched down in my seat and turned the vent so the hot air was blowing directly at me. I glanced in the sideview mirror again, but all I could see was a long line of headlights behind us.

“We’ll be getting off at Clearview, right?” Colin looked over at me as we slowed to about five miles an hour again. “That’s the best way to get to Airline Highway, right?”

“Yeah. What are you thinking? Or do I want to know?”

Colin laughed and patted my leg. “Don’t worry, Scotty, I know what I’m doing.” He looked in the rearview and let out a breath. “Well, I guess I was wrong—they’re getting off here.”

I exhaled and my entire body relaxed. I looked out the window and saw a couple of cars shoot past us down the Carrollton exit. The traffic started picking up speed, and we shot around the first part of the S curve that took the highway through the Midcity, City Park, and Old Metairie neighborhoods.

We actually made it to the Clearview Parkway exit in a little less than ten minutes, which was a surprise. I directed Colin to take the Huey P. Long Bridge exit that pointed us straight into Kenner. The traffic was still heavy and slow as we turned right onto Airline Highway and came to a dead halt.

“Wow.” I said, straining to see ahead of us. “That’s the church lot up ahead to the left—I think that’s why everything’s backed up.”

There was a uniformed cop out on the highway directing traffic into the vast parking lot of the Dove Ministry of Truth. He waved us on with the glowing cone in his hand, and we headed into the crowded parking lot. A massive electric sign was flashing M
EMORIAL
S
ERVICE FOR
M
ARINA
W
ERNER
T
ONIGHT
. A lot of people in yellow slickers were directing cars into parking places. The parking lot was packed with cars. Everywhere I looked people were sloshing through the inch or so of water on the pavement to get to the church. Someone directed us to a space, and Colin turned the engine off.

“So, what’s our cover story?” I asked.

“If anyone asks, we’re private eyes Marina hired.” He winked at me. “And we can’t say more than that. That should put the cat among the pigeons, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” I got out of the car and opened my umbrella. The rain was still pouring down, and I took a deep breath as I looked at the Dove Ministry of Truth.

I’d never even been past the Dove Ministry before. I never have occasion to be on Airline Highway—it’s out of the way from the Quarter to the airport. As cold water soaked through my shoes, socks, and pants legs, I was beginning to be sorry I came this time. I felt queasier the closer I got to the building. It was a huge structure of brick, glass, and steel, maybe two or three stories tall. On the front was an enormous steel cross with several spotlights directed at it. I shivered, and not just from the cold.