Who Dat Whodunnit (28 page)

“We really don’t need to know about that side of her,” Mom interrupted.

He blushed again. “Yeah, sorry. But she never stopped talking. Ever. And all about herself. I couldn’t stand it, you know. But Papa loved her, just thought the sun rose and set out of her ass. And the longer it went, the worse it got. I didn’t know if I was ever going to get out from under. I didn’t want to bring her to that dinner on Monday. Papa suggested it, but it was Enid who pushed it. Enid told her about it, didn’t even give me a chance to decide one way or the other.” He glanced at Mom. “That was kind of awesome when you slugged her, Aunt Cecile.”He looked back at me and Storm. “That was really what we fought about that night. I didn’t tell you the whole story. That night I was finished with her. I was going over there the next morning to get my stuff, give her back her keys, and I was going to tell Papa about Dominique—after the Super Bowl.” He swallowed again. “And when I saw her lying there—and the gun—I knew it was yours, Aunt Cecile. But the gun wasn’t the only thing I took.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a baggie. Inside it was a gold cross encrusted with diamonds. “This was in her hand. It’s Enid’s.”

“So you
knew
Enid killed her?” I blurted out. I was furious. “You do know she tried to kill me and Colin, right? If it weren’t for you, none of us would be involved in any of this mess!”

“Technically, that’s not true, dear,” Mom replied. “He didn’t have anything to do with Emily taking my gun over to Marina’s. We still would have been involved.”

My head was starting to hurt. “But…”

But what was the point?

I looked around at everyone’s faces and decided to let it go.

Sometimes you have to just let it go. You can’t sit around playing “if only.”

The most important thing was that the killer was under arrest and the case was closed. Emily was cleared. And Jared—well, we might not ever be close. We might not ever be friends, for that matter. But I didn’t resent him anymore, and that was progress of a sort, right? Maybe he wasn’t so bad.

I took a deep breath and crossed the room to where he was sitting.

I stuck out my hand.

He smiled and took it.

Well done, Scotty
, I heard the Goddess whisper inside my head.
Well done
.

Enid’s lawyer did argue diminished mental capacity, and any number of therapists agreed that Enid’s ability to differentiate between right and wrong was more than slightly skewed.

The anti-gay marriage rally was canceled, much to Mom and Father Dan’s delight. The scandal of Marina’s closet lesbianism was lost in the scandal over the release of more sex tapes featuring the late, unlamented Tara Bourgeois. But within a few days, another Hollywood celebrity went into rehab and everyone forgot about Tara Bourgeois.

“She’ll be lucky if she winds up an answer in Trivial Pursuit one day,” Frank said a few days later.

It was sad, but it was certainly true.

We all drove over to Biloxi the next Saturday night to watch Frank’s title shot. The place was packed, which kind of surprised me. Frank looked incredible as he walked to the ring, every muscle pumped and oiled, in his black trunks with a silver lightning bolt on the front. His black boots were polished to a fine shine, and his black knee pads only made his amazing legs look even sexier. Colin squeezed my leg so hard I almost cried out. The champion, a lean kid in his early twenties with long hair and red tights, gave Frank a pretty rough time for a while—but Frank eventually rallied and just kicked the crap out of the kid. In and out of the ring they fought until finally Frank rolled him onto his shoulders and the referee slapped the mat three times.

Frank was world champion—at least of the Gulf Coast Wrestling Alliance.

Colin and I made him wear the belt to bed that night.

Over the next week, nothing mattered but the Super Bowl. Someone took the banner out of the hands of the gold statue of Joan of Arc on Decatur Street and replaced it with a Saints flag. It was unbelievable; the Super Bowl was all anyone could talk about all week. The
Times-Picayune
could have been renamed
The Saints Daily Bulletin.

And on game day, Colin, Frank, and I walked over to Mom and Dad’s. This time, there wasn’t a party. It was just us, and somehow that was better, I thought.

We all cheered when the Saints, our boys, took the field. “There’s Jared!” I shouted, pointing out his number, and we all cheered again.

We were all so nervous, we just kept talking—nervous chatter that really didn’t mean anything. It was just so strange that the Saints were there, playing on the biggest stage in American sports, where none of us ever thought they would be.

The game started.

It seemed to speed by, as the Colts built a 10–0 lead, and the Saints came back to make it 10–6 at the half. Halftime seemed to last an eternity. “We have to give them the ball back,” I moaned as the teams took the field for the second half. “COME ON, DEFENSE!”

I couldn’t believe my eyes as the Saints went for an onside kick.
Who does that in the Super Bowl?
I thought as the pile of players around the ball fought and clawed while the officials tried to separate the crowds. “Come on, come on, come on,” I was whispering over and over again, and I saw an official signal Saints ball.

I jumped to my feet and screamed—and outside I could hear cheers echoing through the French Quarter. When the Saints scored to take a 13–10 lead, we all leapt to our feet again, screaming—and again we could hear the noise and cheers from all over the city. Fireworks exploded, horns honked and we were all hugging each other and cheering.

Of course, the Colts scored again to go up 17–13. But by now, I could feel it. I didn’t want to say it out loud—it’s crazy, but I was afraid if I spoke the words aloud it would jinx them; the gods would punish us for hubris—but I felt it in my heart, the unthinkable:
My God, we are going to win this game
.

Another field goal by Hartley, who set a new Super Bowl record; three field goals over forty yards, and the Saints were back within a point, 17–16.

There was yet another explosion when Saints tight end Jeremy Shockey caught a pass to go ahead 22–17. This time, the cheers outside were so loud it sounded more like sonic booms echoing throughout the city. When the two-point conversion failed, I thought,
Okay, we can win this 25
–
24
. Then the call was challenged, and when it was overturned for 24–17 lead, my whole body was trembling. I was sitting between Frank and Colin on the couch, and I was squeezing their hands so hard I was afraid I might break bones. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t stop squeezing—and frankly, they were squeezing me back just as hard as the Saints kicked off to the Colts again—and the Colts started marching steadily down the field. Peyton Manning looked unstoppable. There was no question in my mind they were going to tie the game. The ball was snapped, and perhaps the greatest quarterback of all time went back to throw again. A man got open, and he let the pass fly.

And somehow, Tracy Porter read the route, jumped in front of the receiver, grabbed the ball out of the air, and took off for the end zone.

We were screaming.

When the Saints cornerback reached the thirty yard line and it was obvious no one was going to catch him, I choked up. Tears started flowing as I somehow managed to say, “We’re going to win the Super Bowl.”

Colin and Frank and Mom and Dad and I danced around the living room, jumping up and down and just screaming, high-fiving each other until our hands stung.

And again, we could hear the noise of everyone else in New Orleans. There was an incredible booming roar outside, coming from every direction. It was almost like rolling thunder—and there were times I swear I felt the entire city shaking. I have never heard anything like it in my life; an entire city cheering at the same time. I got goose bumps. Fireworks, horns, and human voices shouting as loudly as they could.

And the clock began to run down.

And finally, unbelievably, improbably, the time ran out and the Saints were the champions of the Super Bowl.

And it sounded as if an entire city sent up a cheer as one throat, as though in that one shimmering, glorious instant the entire population ceased to be separate entities but somehow became one mind, one emotion, one expression of sheer, unadulterated ecstasy that was better than any mind-altering substance I’ve ever taken.

For that all too brief moment, a diverse and complex city all shared an extraordinary bond.

And it became possible to dream again, because there was proof again, finally, that dreams could come true if you chased them hard enough.

Tears streaming down our faces, our arms around each other, we watched the trophy presentation. Our bodies were all trembling.

Outside, the biggest party in the history of the city of New Orleans began. Fireworks boomed over Jackson Square. The cannons on the riverfront roared. And the sound of the crowds outside—if I live to be a hundred, I will never again hear such a magnificent sound—the loudest sound of joy in recorded history.

It was another lost night. We went out into the crowds and joined the celebration. More and more people poured into the Quarter all night long—I don’t think I’ve ever seen the French Quarter that full of people even on the most crowded Fat Tuesday. Bars were giving away drinks. Champagne corks were flying. Second lines snaked through the streets.

No one knows how to party like New Orleans.

We finally made it home around eight in the morning.

“You guys want to head out to the airport to wait for them?” I asked as I started a pot of coffee, just in case. “I’m dead tired, but I’ll go if you guys want to.”

Frank and Colin exchanged a look. “We-ell,” Frank said slowly, “that would be fun, but we could just go to the Saints victory parade tomorrow night.”

“And I was thinking it would be fun to celebrate in our own way.” Colin winked at me.

I turned the coffeemaker off and smiled at the two men I was so blessed to have in my life. “Let’s go, then.”

I truly am blessed
,
I thought as I followed them into the bedroom.
Thank you again, Goddess.

Greg Herren is the award-winning author of ten mysteries for adults and two young adult suspense novels. He has published hundreds of articles and short stories in various markets. He is a member of the Authors Guild, International Association of Crime Writers, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, Horror Writers of America, and Novelists, Inc. He is currently serving as a board member of the Southwest Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. He works as an HIV educator and lives in New Orleans. He blogs at scottynola.livejournal.com.

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