Chapter 9
Danni was still half asleep when she heard her phone buzzing on the bedside table. She had set it on silent the night before, knowing the reverberation on the table would wake her anyway.
She quickly answered it, surprised to see by the caller I.D. that it was Billie McDougall—her father’s assistant who had stayed on with her, and was an integral part of her shop on Royal Street, The Cheshire Cat—and of their lives. He really could star as Riff-Raff in a production of “The Rocky Horror Show.” Perhaps as a crazed scientist in any version of “Frankenstein.” But she loved him—he was like the great-uncle she never had.
“Billie! Hi!” She glanced at the time. Quinn couldn’t possibly have gotten to New Orleans yet—he’d been gone less than an hour.
“Hey. Danni—”
“Quinn is bringing you a sketch. I need you to get into Dad’s book in the basement. I’m trying to find out if a medallion—a stylized fleur-de-lis—might mean something. He’ll—”
“Danni!” Bill interrupted, the soft burr of his voice strong. “Lass, he figured he wouldn’t waste time. He took a picture of the drawing with his phone and texted it to me.”
“Oh—of course. Why the hell didn’t I just do it?”
“He said you were sleep-sketching. You were probably still half-asleep,” Billie said.
“No excuse. But you’re calling me. What did you discover?”
“I found Angus wrote a whole chapter on such objects and I read it,” Billie said. “But even so, I recalled such a situation years ago. Years and years ago, when your father and I were in Ireland…he’d been called by a friend of your mom. People were dying horribly in County Cork. Seems they were plagued by a strange, antique brooch. But, lass, here’s the thing—such an object only seems to be lethal in the wrong hands, which is why years and years had gone by before anything bad began to happen. Then this bloody bugger got ahold of it who had been thinking of doing-in his wife. She’d had the brooch, but he ripped it off her in a fight, and it seemed to do something to his mind. He killed her…and then set off on a murder spree when others questioned him, and well, suffice it to say, your dad figured it all out, we got hold of the brooch, and the killer still sits in prison. Ye’d feel sorry for the bugger, excepting that he’d been a wife-beater from the get-go and known to harass lasses and all. Anyway, Angus saw to it that the brooch was melted down, and the gold and the stones were buried about an old cemetery in so many places it could never be put back together again. You need to be getting hold of whatever that fleur-de-lis is, lass. Oh—and I looked into it, too. Naturally, lass, it will not be easy. The fleur-de-lis is so common a symbol here in New Orleans and all about the French areas of Louisiana. The one you drew has a special little curly-cue at the bottom petal—take a good look at it. That’s what you’re going to be looking for. Of course, like others, it’s probably been copied, so be looking for the original, but I know you know that you must be looking for the right one.”
“Thank you, Billie,” Danni said. “Does that mean if a decent person—or a person just not capable of murder—gets their hands on it, then it’s…nothing?”
“Exactly, lass, exactly,” Billie told her.
“Thank you, Billie!”
“Take care, lass, take care.”
“Always, Billie,” Danni promised.
“Larue is taking Quinn by the murder site and the bed and breakfast where the poor murdered lass was staying, and then he’ll be getting right back to you, you know!”
“Yes, thanks, Billie.”
“No nothing crazy, eh, lass?”
“Nothing crazy,” she promised, and bidding him goodbye, she ended the call, rolled over, and popped out of bed.
She had no intention of doing anything crazy. She just meant to be social.
Someone here had a cursed fleur-de-lis medallion. She thought it might have once been an innocent piece of jewelry, owned by Yvette—and turned at the time of her murder.
Copies were made to look like the real thing. But she hadn’t been exposed to antiques all her life not to recognize the real from the fake.
As she finished dressing, the phone rang. It was Quinn. She grabbed it quickly.
“Where are you?” he demanded gruffly.
“In the room. I haven’t headed out yet,” she told him.
“Danni, Larue and I found an abandoned sedan—a car service sedan. We traced it back to a car service.”
“What service?”
“A place called ‘Fleur-de-lis Limo Corporation.’ Danni—the company traces back to a major holding company. A company held by another company and that company owned by—”
“Trent Anderson,” she said.
“Right. Larue has called Peter Ellsworth. Ellsworth is going to be picking Trent Anderson up now. We’re starting to believe the man killed at the cemetery was the driver, but we don’t know that for sure yet. None of the drivers have been reported missing—and the car wasn’t scheduled out. Anyway, I’ll let you know more as soon as I know anything.”
“Is Trent Anderson being arrested?” Danni asked.
“Brought in for questioning. There’s no direct evidence he had anything to do with it.”
“But…he’s local, he’s…rich. He could pull it all off!”
“Yes, Danni, and there’s no law that says you get to arrest a guy because he’s local and rich. He’s a person of interest, but nothing solid suggests his guilt.”
“Okay, well, did you talk to Billie? See if he has a fleur-de-lis medallion, necklace, or not a necklace anymore just the medallion.”
“Yes, I talked to Billie. Danni, there is no guarantee it is Trent Anderson, though I hope they’re going to keep him for at least twenty-four hours. Stay careful, right?”
She sighed softly. “Of course. You, too.”
“You got it.”
The call ended. She stared at the phone and then headed out into the hallway.
To her great surprise, she almost ran right into Trent Anderson, who was just closing the door to a room down the hall as she was hurrying along.
***
They had barely left the area before Quinn saw the car.
It had been shoved into a canal of Bayou Teche—though the brush growing around it was high, the water hadn’t been high enough to cover it completely.
Quinn was somewhat surprised he’d seen it at all, other than they’d expected the car had been abandoned somewhere, either that or—since no one had gotten a plate number off it—it had simply been driven back to where it had come from and gone back into service.
While Larue reported to Ellsworth, Quinn crawled through the swampy ground and into the water, determined to get a plate number and search for the ornament old John Appleby had described.
The plate number was easy enough.
The ornament was gone.
Larue reported the plate number; a tow truck was being sent out. CSI would go over the vehicle, though Quinn doubted they would get much from it.
They stood by Quinn’s car, staring at the water and the car.
“Trent Anderson is a local—guess he’d be up on all the legends,” Larue said. He looked at Quinn. “And—like anyone else—he could have gotten from NOLA and out here easily enough. Two murder scenes, two nights.” He let out a sigh. “Guess we’re lucky there weren’t a few murders last night. What the hell is this, Quinn? If it’s not Trent Anderson, do we have to worry about every cemetery in the country? A sick idiot killing people and disinterring them.”
Quinn leaned on the car, looking over at Larue. “Here’s what bothers me, which is why I wanted to get into New Orleans. Ally Caldwell was associated with Colleen’s site and lodge. The young woman killed in New Orleans was also on that site. I want to see the room where she was staying—and talk to her landlady. Also, the woman who still lives at the mansion—all that was done in her cemetery and she didn’t hear a thing? Why no security cameras?”
“There are cameras in the house—but not on the grounds. Sure, cemetery vandalism takes place, but most small museums or historic homes, the money spent on that kind of security isn’t worth it. Most people don’t wake up planning on killing people and hiking them up on poles in a cemetery.”
Quinn nodded; he saw a car driving to their position, pulling off the road. It was Peter Ellsworth; a tow truck wasn’t far behind him.
He strode toward them, eyeing the car in the marshy water.
“Trent Anderson isn’t at his home,” he said. “I have officers on the lookout for him; we’ll bring him in for questioning. You know, though, unless I have some evidence that places him—not a company—at a murder site, I can’t hold him more than twenty-four hours. Do you have anything more? Anybody get anything out of the car company in NOLA?”
“The car should have been in the lot. There were no drivers assigned to it on the night Ally disappeared,” Larue told him.
“Well planned,” Quinn murmured.
“And still making no sense to me,” Larue said, staring at Quinn.
He really didn’t want to know a fleur-de-lis medallion might have made a not-so-nice person into a lethal person. Quinn just shook his head, because it really wasn’t making sense yet to him, either.
“What do we do from here?” Larue asked Quinn.
Peter Ellsworth nodded toward Quinn, indicating his sopping and muddied clothing.
“I’m thinking Quinn might want a shower and a change,” Ellsworth said.
“In NOLA,” Quinn said. “It’s important that I talk to a few people there.”
“You want to take a two-hour drive—” Larue began.
“Yes.” Quinn turned to Ellsworth. “You can definitely hold on to him for twenty-four hours once you have him? His money and his clout won’t get him out? We can do what we need to do and be back here in six hours.”
“Go,” Ellsworth said. “If I have to sit on him myself, he’ll be at the station. Assuming, of course, that we find him.”
“Let’s move then,” Quinn told Larue. He nodded to Ellsworth, “and thanks.”
“Hey—I want this damned thing solved to. Preferably, before we have any more corpses!”
***
“Danni!”
Trent Anderson seemed sincerely glad to see her.
“Hey, Mr. Anderson, nice to see you,” she managed.
Wasn’t he supposed to be with the police by now?
“Mr. Anderson? Please, Danni, this is a place where we’re all supposed to become friends,” he said. “Trent. Just Trent. I’m glad to run into you.”
They were alone in the hallway. She wasn’t feeling particularly comfortable.
“Would you have some coffee with me?” he asked.
“Sure.” The coffee bar, yes, surrounded by people. “I would love coffee right now!”
“I heard you and Mr. Quinn wanted to talk to me.”
“You heard that already?”
“Of course. Police were out to take a report from Daphne Alain last night, and I’m the one who owns the fairgrounds; and my company hires the managers, makes the arrangements…all that. Anyway, I think you’re right.”
They were in the elevator then. Alone. He hit the button for the ground floor.
“We’re right?” Danni asked.
He nodded somberly.
The elevator “pinged” and the doors opened. He held the door, letting her precede him. She stepped out, and he came to her side as they walked to the coffee bar together greeting others they passed on the way.
“Let me get the coffee. What would like?” he asked her.
She smiled. “Coffee. Just coffee.”
She took a table. People were leaving the line with their cups of espresso, mochas, and lattes; many smiled nervously her way, some greeted her.
She heard bits of chatter, some talking about their arrangements for the ball, some talking about friends who had chosen to leave, and some talking about the murders—considering them devil worship or something of the like.
Trent Anderson came to the table bearing two cups of coffee. He set hers down and sipped his own while taking his chair. Then he told her bluntly, “You two are entirely right, and I should have thought of it myself already.”
“Thought of—”
“The scarecrows,” he said. “I’m having them taken down today. I mean, God knows, this horrible crazy person might have gone on to another city or town or even state by now, but…the scarecrows we have up might have looked like some kind of an invitation to him. If he’s still around. They’re being taken down—and being taken out of the horror house as we speak.”
“That’s great,” Danni said. “Thank you.”
“This is my home. The creepy scarecrows were always a part of the harvest—to ward off evil,” he said. “Someone twisted the hell out of it.”
“People will always twist things,” she murmured. She noted his hands; they weren’t soft as she might have expected. He did keep his nails clean and short, but his hands would never give away the fact he probably didn’t have to do any kind of manual labor if he didn’t want to.
He was charming—and good looking. Which made her curious—beyond the fact they had discovered that the car that had picked up Ally Caldwell had belonged to one his companies-within-a-company.
“You’re smiling. Crookedly. Very attractive and slightly sexy, if I may say without sounding like some kind of a masher,” he told her. He lifted his cup to her. “Trust me. I wouldn’t ever want to tangle with your Mr. Quinn.”
“I was just thinking that you, Trent, are a very attractive man. As such, it does seem a little strange you’re on a dating site—any dating site.”
He smiled at that. “Let’s Meet is the only site I’m on. This is a small community,” he told her. “I really like what Colleen Rankin is doing; you can chat online, but you can come to one of her get-togethers, too. None of that dating where you head to pick someone up and discover they’re not a thing like their picture and not a word they wrote about themselves was true. Through Colleen’s site, you can chat and then meet at a mixer and find out if what you thought while engaged with someone online was true. Plus you can also find out if there is any chemistry between you.”
“I suppose that’s what most people like about the site.”
“Take Ally Caldwell—and not to speak ill of the dead. She was a beautiful woman, but man, she had one of the harshest personalities I’ve ever come across, and I work with a lot of high-powered business women in many different areas.”
“You knew Ally?”
“Well, I met her.”
“When?”
“Colleen was down in her New Orleans office with members of the staff before they came out here for the event. I saw her there. I can’t say I knew her. But…”
He paused, looking downward sheepishly for a moment. “I did think she was a beautiful woman. I guess I was a little flirtatious when I talked to her. But…then she looked me up and down and looked me up and…she was hostile at first, and then strange, as if she’d checked out my financial status. I backed away and ran home as fast as I could.”
“Did you meet Tracy Willard then, too?”
He smiled, sitting back. “Briefly, but we really started chatting at the mixer, and things moved on from there.” He lowered his voice, moving closer. “I think she’s afraid she wasn’t supposed to be doing any mixing. I think she’s wrong. Colleen is delightful, and she’s one of the very few completely sincere people I think I’ve ever met.”
“So that’s still going well. You and Tracy? That’s why you’re here, at the lodge?” Danni asked.
He laughed softly. “I took a room here myself. Best to have one’s own space. I like Tracy; she’s lovely and a great deal of fun, but I’m not ready to commit to anyone. This is all very new.” He was quiet another minute. “I don’t think of myself as any kind of a mess, Danni, but I inherited money, and then I did well with it. While I don’t think the world is out to get me, I’ve been around the block a bit. I wanted to be wanted for me, like anyone else, and not my money.”
“Of course,” Danni said. “We’re all human.”
He grinned, running his finger over the edge of his paper coffee cup. “I’d like to have what you and Mr. Quinn have one day.”
“Oh?”
He gave her a crooked grin. “You communicate without words; you look across a room for one another and find one another. You didn’t meet on a dating site, did you?”
She shook her head. “No, but…it wasn’t an instant thing, trust me. We were ready to battle at the start.”
“How did you get together?”
“Um, he had worked with my father. I met him when my father passed away.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I mean, I’m sorry about your father. I guess I’m glad for Quinn. Oh—and sorry for the rest of the lonely bachelors out here—not a pick-up line, I swear it!”
“Hey, you two, may I join you?”
They both looked up. Colleen had a cup of coffee and was standing by the table. She looked better than she had looked the day before; she was finding her strength.
“Of course!” Danni said. Trent leapt to his feet to pull out a chair for her.
“Are you ears ringing?” he asked Colleen.
“In a good way—or not so good?” Colleen asked. “I’m sorry; I’m trying, but…”
“In a wonderful way,” Trent said. “I was telling Danni that yours is the only site I’m on. I think your way of thinking is brilliant!”
Colleen flushed. “Thank you. I just…I did think I was doing a good thing.”
Trent Anderson took her hand. “Don’t ever doubt that, Colleen. What happened here is not your fault; and you mustn’t stop doing what you do because of an evil, sick person. They’ll find whoever did this; I’m so sorry about Ally, but don’t you stop.”
She smiled sadly at him and then frowned, rising.
“Detective Ellsworth,” she murmured. “He must know something; he’s coming here.”
Ellsworth was coming straight toward them.
Trent rose as Colleen did, and naturally Danni followed suit.
“Mr. Anderson,” Detective Ellsworth said, “we need you.”
“Me?” Trent asked. He seemed honestly surprised.
“We have some questions for you—if you wouldn’t mind?”
The detective was unerringly polite; there was still something about his manner. There was no reason for him to have to tell Trent he would be coming—of his own volition or by force.
“I…sure. If I can help,” Trent said.
“Wait! Detective Ellsworth, what is this?” Colleen protested.
Trent Anderson wasn’t going to let it become a scene. He turned quickly to Colleen. “Please, Colleen, it’s fine. I truly am happy to be of assistance in any way. I’ll see you later. Danni, thanks for the chat. Mr. Quinn is truly a lucky fellow.”
“Thanks!” Danni said. “And yes, of course, we’ll see you later.”
Her words were sincere, but she winced inwardly.
He was now connected to whatever had happened to Ally and the other murdered man. Something had to have been going on for a driver to have slipped into a limo service, taken a car, picked Ally up, and brought her to the cemetery to have her throat slit.
It was—through no matter how many channels—his limo company.
He might well be a murderer.
“What’s that all about?”
Danni and Colleen swung around. Tracy Willard had come upon them, her hands on her hips, and a serious frown on her face as she watched Detective Ellsworth and Trent Anderson leave.
“The police want to talk to Mr. Anderson,” Colleen said.
“But why? He’s the nicest guy in the world! He couldn’t have anything to do with anything—and I…I know he couldn’t have had anything to do with the murders!”
“I don’t think he did either,” Colleen said. “But, Tracy!” she added in a whisper. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because he was with me,” Tracy admitted. “He couldn’t have killed anyone. He was with me.”
***
Quinn decided they’d stop at the MacDonald Mansion on the way into the city. Their drive was basically west to east, and it was easiest to stop at the border of the city first.
Problem was he wasn’t dry. He was damp. Larue suggested they could get to the city and go to his home on Royal Street first, but Quinn didn’t want to waste time.
His shoes squeaked when he walked, but he was mostly presentable.
The MacDonald Mansion was open for tours when they arrived; a pleasant girl at the ticket office started to tell them the times the next tours would start, but Larue quickly produced his I.D. and told her that he needed to see Fiona MacDonald.
She nodded gravely, picked up a phone, and made a call.
A moment later a woman of about thirty with her hair and dress in antebellum fashion appeared. She was grave as she hurried out to the porch to meet them, shaking hands with Larue whom she already knew and then Quinn.
“I would say we should go to the parlor, but the house is open and there are people visiting and guides giving tours. I could suggest a walk in the cemetery and garden, but you police still have it cordoned off. Which is fine, of course, just fine!”
“Well, we need to get out there anyway,” Quinn said, “if you don’t mind. And Detective Larue has the authority to lift the crime scene tape.”
She winced. “I just hate going out there now,” she murmured. “Once upon a time…I loved it. This may sound creepy, but I love my family history, and I love this house. I even loved they made a beautiful garden area out of family graveyard or cemetery. I guess it’s more of a cemetery—we have some interments in the ground, but they started building vaults out here even before they had opened St. Louis #1. I know where I’ll be one day, and honestly, it’s comforting rather than creepy. Well, I did love it, but, now…”
They headed down the porch steps and around the house, through a trellis path and into what was a truly beautiful big of acreage—flowering trees had been planted and benches had been distributed throughout.
There were, however, three large pits in the midst of several above-ground single coffin tombs.
“CSI has everything,” Larue murmured. “The morgue has the bodies; and our crime scene investigators have everything else.”
Quinn headed straight for the three pits. “And the bodies were in the same order as in Perryville, right? Already deceased, the young woman, and then the man?”
“Right,” Larue said.
Quinn turned to look back at the house. The attic rose above the neighboring trees.
“You saw nothing?” he asked Fiona MacDonald.
She shook her head, her expression distressed. “Mr. Quinn, that attic window there—it’s not exactly where I sleep. That’s a salon area and by bedroom is behind it. I sleep with the television on. I like the company of the voices. I live here alone. I’ve never been afraid before, and I don’t really need to be afraid now. We have a great security system as far as the house goes. I’m truly horrified I didn’t see what was happening. This is my business or my family’s business, but it’s also my home. And what was done here…like I said, it’s my home.” She offered them a dry expression, her lips curving downward. “It has been good for business. I had to call in guides who are usually off today.”
“I guess ‘haunted’ history does do well,” Larue murmured.
“Miss MacDonald, would you have heard anything going on before you went to bed?” Quinn asked her.
She nodded fervently. “Our last tour is later than most. Six o’clock. People don’t leave until seven or eight, and they’re welcome to walk around back here until they’re ready to go. Milly Sturbridge, who manages the ticket counter, never leaves until about eight. She’s an old family friend, and she’s welcome to eat here, relax here, and leave when she’s ready. That night, I had been out with friends. I came home about eleven. Nothing was amiss then. I was awake until midnight, and then I went to bed.”
Quinn hesitated and then drew out his phone, thumbing to a picture of Allison Caldwell.
He moved quickly past the crime scene photo of her on the scarecrow and searched for one sent to him along with others from Peter Ellsworth’s office. It took a minute; he knew Larue was looking at him curiously.
“Sorry,” he said quickly. He found a picture of Allison Caldwell in life at last. “Miss MacDonald, by any chance, was this woman ever here?”
She stared at the picture a minute. “So many people come,” she murmured, studying the picture and frowning. Then she nodded looking at him. “Maybe, I think so, yes. I think she was with a group of people, and…in fact, yes, I think it was her. I noticed her here because others were listening to the guide and enjoying the house and…she looked impatient. Anxious to be gone. She was an attractive woman with very dark hair. I was heading upstairs for something; she wasn’t in my group. In fact—it was just a day or two before…before the murders here. Is she…a suspect.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry; she was a victim.”
“Oh!” Fiona said, her face taking on a look of horror.
“You were shown a likeness of the woman, Belinda Cardigan, who was killed here, right?” he asked.
She nodded, swallowing hard, as if she was feeling ill.
“I’m truly sorry,” he said.
“Yes, of course, Quinn, she saw pictures,” Larue murmured.
“Had you seen her before?” he asked.
She shook her head and whispered, “No. But a lot of people come here. I have three full-time guides and a few college kids who cover when people are on vacation. I am here most of the time. When I’m not being a guide myself, I work on the books or sometimes have friends in. I mean, I live here, too. On certain days, we serve iced tea or lemonade and cookies, which I bake.”
Quinn glanced at Larue. “We got pictures of our victim around,” he said. “I’m afraid they weren’t all certain if they had or hadn’t seen Belinda.”
Quinn nodded. “Thank you,” he told her.
He walked over to the area where the earth had been dug out for the poles. He hunkered down picking up a piece of straw.
He’d seen the pictures of the crime scene here—and what had happened in Perryville had been just about a carbon copy.
He kept the piece of straw; he didn’t honestly know if crime scene technicians could discover if it had been the same straw used at both places, but he wanted to find out.
Walking back to Larue and Fiona MacDonald who waited watching in silence, he nodded to Larue and told Fiona, “I’m truly sorry; we do intend to catch this killer.”
“Of course. Really, I am happy to help. It’s just so…so horrible.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “Well, we thank you very much.”
“Ready?” Larue asked.
“Ready.”
They headed back to the street where Quinn had parked.
“We do have a bunch of that at the lab,” Larue told Quinn, noting the straw in his hand as they left.
“Yeah, but I thought we should take one back with us,” Quinn said.
Larue shrugged. “Okay, their lab, our lab…”
“Comparison, up close and personal,” Quinn said.
“And now, a shower for you and a change of clothing? Maybe something cold from the refrigerator at the house on Royal for me while I wait?”
“Almost,” Quinn said.
Larue groaned. “You want to go to the bed and breakfast first?”
“I do.”
“How can you stand yourself? You’re wearing mostly-dried swamp water? Better still, how the hell does Danni stand you.”
“Well, I don’t usually wear nearly-dried swamp water, and if you were Danni, I just might shower first. But,” he shrugged, grinning, “you’re not Danni. What’s the name of this place by the way?”
“The Saint on St. Peter’s,” Larue said. “Hey—I didn’t name the place. But let’s go. I guess we’re not far now, and we’ll be in the French Quarter and can head to Royal Street then—if you do want to shower and stop by the place before returning.”
Quinn nodded. “Yes, I do want to shower before another two-hour drive. For now.”
“Onward,” Larue said. He was quiet a minute. “What do you think it might mean—that Allison Caldwell was at that place, too?”
“It means she was there. ‘With a group.’” Quinn said. “That, in itself, is not a surprise, because Colleen’s people were in New Orleans for several days before heading out to the lodge. And I’m assuming, some guests or clients checked in at the office in the CBD here. What I find curious is this has been all over the news, and no one from Colleen’s group mentioned having been here. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“Yes, now you’ve pointed it out. I never directly asked anyone that question. Oh, wait, I didn’t really do any of the questioning out in Perryville; I had to leave that to the appropriate authorities—oh, and you,” he added dryly. “To be honest, I wouldn’t have thought to ask Fiona MacDonald if she’d ever seen Ally Caldwell. First, we know eye-witness reports can be skewed and sketchy at best. Downright wrong sometimes, too.”
“And sometimes, right on,” Quinn said. “Come on. Let’s get to the bed and breakfast.”