Fourteen
With the two-hour time difference in California, Brendan’s email to Detective Shaw arrived while he was still at home and in the shower. It was the first thing he noticed when he logged on to his computer, and then it reminded him that he still hadn’t sent that security footage, and he did so right then before he opened the new attached file.
He was unprepared for what Sahara and Brendan had found, but it did, however, explain why all of this was happening. What if there was another heir? One with a grudge of massive proportions? He printed off a hard copy for their working file and then saved it to the efile before he got up to refill his coffee cup. He took it and another Danish back to his desk as he settled in to study the new info in depth. Once he had this straight in his head, he was calling the New Orleans police.
* * *
Detectives Fisher and Julian received the email within moments of Brendan hitting Send. Fisher read the letter, then opened up the attachment. It was with no small amount of shock that he learned what a predator Leopold Travis had been. Knowing this and remembering how distant Sahara Travis had been about her relationship with her parents was now beginning to make a little sense. He could only imagine the turmoil that had gone on behind their privileged life.
“Hey, Julian!”
His partner looked up from his desk.
“Did you get an email from Brendan McQueen?”
“Yes, I’m reading it now. Don’t know what to think about all this. It’s sure not how the New Orleans elite thought of Leopold.”
Once they were both finished reading, Fisher pulled the case file on Travis and found the address where his body had been found.
“I’m gonna run with a hunch,” he said.
“What kind of hunch?” Julian asked.
“I didn’t think the house where Leopold was murdered was a random choice, and neither did you. So what do you think the odds are of one of these women’s names showing up as a prior owner?”
Julian grinned. “So maybe Travis paid off a pregnant woman, and not just another affair gone cold? The killer chose this house for a reason. What if it was where he grew up?”
“Why not? It happens,” Fisher said.
Julian nodded. “Then let’s get busy. You take half the names, I’ll take the others. Let’s run background checks and see what comes up.”
A couple of hours later Fisher got a call from Detective Shaw in LA and put him on speaker so Julian could hear.
“I’m calling about the email from Brendan McQueen. I would like to hear that you’ve got a handle on a viable suspect,” Shaw said.
“And we’d like to tell you we do, but we don’t. However, the info Brendan sent might be the break we were waiting for.”
“I started background checks on the names,” Shaw said. “But what’s going on in your city is out of my jurisdiction.”
“Before the email, we had what we thought was a random crime scene where Leopold Travis’s body was discovered, but after reading through all of what Brendan sent, we’re checking to see if any of the women on this list ever owned that house. The killer had to have chosen it for a reason.”
“Where was the house?” Shaw asked.
“When Hurricane Katrina struck, the Ninth Ward was the hardest hit part of the city. It’s building up again, but very slowly, and there are a lot of empty houses that are still in the same shape they were when the water went down. It was in one of those.”
“Wow. How did you ever find the body?”
“Some kids messing around where they didn’t belong. They found it and their parents called it in.”
Shaw made a few notes as he spoke. “I have a couple of leads, but so far they’re not going anywhere. The killer either hired out the hits or there’s more than one person behind all this.”
Detective Julian broke in then, wanting to follow up on their earlier conversation.
“Last time we spoke you were talking to a woman at The Magnolia who claimed she might have seen the man who planted the bomb where Sahara Travis lived. Did anything come of that?”
“Grainy security footage. He was posing as an elevator repairman. Pretty sure he was wearing a wig and a fake mustache. He had a stolen ID and toolbox, and we found out later that the van he drove was a rental. There were fingerprints all over it, but nothing we could find in the system. I’m inclined to think this guy was just hired on to do the job. If he was a pro, he’d most likely have a criminal record.”
“What about the bomb that was supposedly on Miss Travis’s private jet?” Julian asked. “How did you come to find that?”
“Her bodyguard called us, told us they were flying commercial to be safe and asked if we would have someone check her plane for sabotage. But by the time we got out to check it, Homicide was already there working a murder. The mechanic had been killed and tossed in a Dumpster. That intensified our search, and yes, we found a bomb, so he was definitely trying to cover all the bases. However, once she left LA, our whole case here went cold, which led us to believe he followed her.”
“And obviously you were right,” Fisher said. “However, this last attempt was most certainly a hired hit. The bodyguard took him out before he got a chance to launch any kind of attack, but the dead guy had payoff money on him, along with the address of the Travis residence written on a piece of paper. And he was a local with a known reputation to do most anything if the price was right.”
“Which still leaves us both in the cold as to who’s responsible,” Shaw said. “At any rate, stay in touch. I’d like to tie this up as soon as possible.”
“As would we,” Fisher said, and the call ended. He looked at Julian, and then glanced at the clock. “Let’s get some lunch before we get back to this.”
Before Julian could answer, the phone rang, and Sahara Travis’s stalker was put on the back burner for a drive-by shooting that left a mother dead and her teenage son, a known drug dealer, wounded. When you lived life in the fast lane, some things never changed.
* * *
It was nearing noon when Brendan checked his email and found the security footage they’d been waiting for. He and Sahara had been sitting quietly in the library all morning, browsing through the books and mostly keeping out of each other’s way.
“Sahara, pull up a chair,” he said.
She was reading the very last pages of The Velveteen Rabbit with tears in her eyes—it was a childhood favorite of hers—when Brendan called her. She laid it aside and dragged a chair to the table where he was working and tried not to think about how she felt.
“What’s up?”
“The security footage came. It’s not very good quality. Let me know if he even looks familiar.”
“Okay.”
He hit Play and then turned the laptop toward her.
She watched intently, eyeing the man walking into the service entrance, talking to a woman behind a desk and then walking out sometime later. Then she watched footage of him captured at the airport where her plane was kept. She gasped when she saw the body being dumped.
“Oh my God,” she said, and pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep from screaming.
She was sick to her stomach when it ended.
“I don’t know who that is, and he didn’t look at all familiar. Not even the way he walked. I’m sorry.”
“No. Don’t be sorry. It was just something that needed to be run by you. I’ll let them know you couldn’t identify him.”
She nodded and was getting up from the chair when the house phone rang. When she turned to answer, Brendan caught her by the wrist.
“Aren’t you going to let Billie answer?”
“She went to the store. Don’t worry, it will be fine.” Then she picked up the receiver.
“Hello?”
“It’s me, honey.”
“It’s Harold,” she said, eyeing the satisfied nod from McQueen, then turned her attention to the call. “What’s up?”
“Your lawyer is faxing over the will. He says to tell you it’s a basic boilerplate, but it would stand up in court should the need arise. When you get back, come in and he’ll itemize it all to specify your holdings.”
“Okay. Many thanks for this,” she said.
“You’re welcome. Stay safe.”
“That’s all up to Brendan, and he’s doing a rather spectacular job. All I can say is, so far, so good.”
Harold sighed. “Just so you know, I hate that you have to live like this.”
“I don’t like it, either, Harold, but right now we have no other choice.”
“I know, but I had to say it.”
“Thank you, and you stay safe, too. No more falls in the shower, okay?”
He groaned. “Deal.”
“Oh! Please give Adam a hello from me next time you talk to him.”
“Sure thing.”
She replaced the receiver.
Brendan listened to the whole one-sided conversation and thought nothing of it until her last comment.
“Who’s Adam?” he asked, without looking up from the computer screen.
She glanced over her shoulder and thought about making something up to see if he cared and then thought, what the hell. Playing games wasn’t her style and she wasn’t starting now.
“The security guard at The Magnolia,” she answered honestly.
“Oh,” Brendan said, and for the first time in hours, he met her gaze.
Sahara looked back, then put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin.
“Were you jealous?” she asked, and then walked out of the library.
“Damn it,” he muttered, shut down the laptop and followed.
“Where are you going?” he asked, as he caught up.
“To the fax machine in Leopold’s office. I have some papers coming that I need to sign.”
“Oh, okay.”
She entered the room without hesitation. Whatever ghosts had been there before were off her radar. She went straight to the fax and began gathering up the pages and the cover letter that came with instructions.
She stood there long enough to scan the pages, then picked up a pen from the desk, signed the papers, then turned around and faxed them back.
“That didn’t take long,” he said.
She shrugged. “I already knew what was coming.”
As soon as the last page ran through, she gathered them up, found an empty file folder and slipped them inside.
“I’m through. I guess lunch will be ready soon, but I don’t want to eat. I want to go for a walk. I want to go to the French Quarter and get a box of pralines. I want to hear the music on Beale Street. I want to go down to the river and watch the riverboats. Did you know the streets on the riverfront are paved with ballast stones? You know what ballast stones are?”
Brendan heard in her voice a longing to revisit her childhood, and frustration at being cooped up in a house she hated because showing her face could get her killed.
“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me about the ballast stones.”
She sat down on the edge of the desk, her long legs dangling almost to the floor.
“Back in the late 1700s and early 1800s, plantations ruled, cotton was king, and slaves were bought and sold like products rather than people. If a ship would sail into the harbor to pick up goods, like bales of cotton or whatever else was being shipped out of New Orleans, they usually came laden with goods to trade, which were unloaded on the docks. But if they set sail without goods, coming only to pick up the huge bales of cotton, they still couldn’t sail empty, because they needed weight in the hold to keep from tipping over and sinking in storms. So they loaded up stones for ballast, big heavy stones that were put down in the hold. Then when they got here, the slaves had to bring the stones up and dump them in the river to make room for the goods. As the city grew, someone got the fine idea that the riverfront needed to be paved and that same someone thought those ballast stones would be perfect for pavers, and they were free. So they made the same slaves who dumped them in the river dive down and bring them up.”
She paused a minute, biting her lip, as if trying to control emotion, and when she looked at him, there were tears in her eyes. She sighed. “Hundreds of slaves died trying to get those damn ballast stones off the bottom of the river, but eventually they hauled up enough to pave the river walk. When I was young, I used to say a prayer for the ghosts I felt there. It’s a haunting place at night, but a beautiful place, too. I wish I could show it to you. I think you’d like it.”
Without giving him a chance to answer, she slid off the desk and brushed off the seat of her slacks.
“So, want to walk me down to the kitchen instead and see what Miss Billie is making for lunch?”
He nodded.
She tossed her hair back and laughed, but it was as false as the smile on her face, and he knew it. She leaned against the office wall.
“You know the routine. Follow me, McQueen, lest I am beset upon by nefarious men and meet my doom somewhere between here and the kitchen.”
When he crooked an eyebrow at her, she added, “Those were lines from a movie I was in. My character was a flighty, ridiculous woman from the Victorian era. I was glad when that movie was over.”
“Then I should probably lead the way,” he said, moving toward her. “Just in case.”
He slid a hand beneath her hair and stroked the side of her face with his thumb.
She looked up at him, clutched the wall a little tighter and then stepped away.
“After you,” she said.
He strode out of the office, then waited until she was right beside him before taking another step. The fact that he’d been the cause of her latest grief and heartache was killing him. He didn’t know how this would end, but he was suddenly willing to risk another heartbreak to find out.
“How about we take this trip together and see what happens?” he said, and then held out his hand.
“Are you going to throw me away again when the mood strikes?” she asked.
It was the tremble in her voice that told him he’d made the right decision.
“No. I won’t ever do that again.”
She took his hand. Daring to trust one more time, she tightened her grip, as if that would somehow make the decision stick.
He led the way out of the office, and when they got to their bedroom, she paused.
“I want to leave the papers here.”
She slipped into the room, leaving him in the doorway as she dropped the papers in the drawer by her bedside table. She came back to him with a slight bounce in her step.
He thought it was because they had just made a truce of sorts, when in fact it was from the relief of knowing that even if she died, there wouldn’t be an estate for anyone to contest. What was hers was hers to do with as she chose, and she’d chosen. This mysterious killer wasn’t the only one with secrets, and she’d just decided to beat him at his own game.
When they got downstairs, Billie had already returned from her errand.
“Where’s Lucy?” Sahara asked, noticing she wasn’t helping Billie out with the meal as she usually did.
Billie pointed. “She’s helping out in the garden. I sent her out to tell Sutton I want all of those peace lilies planted among the hostas before I left. They’ll do better in a little shade than in full sun.”
Brendan moved toward the window. Lucy was standing beneath a shade tree talking to Sutton. He watched her for a few moments.
“Looks like Lucy made a conquest,” he said. “I’ve never seen her so animated.”
Sahara frowned. “I think she has a boyfriend back in LA, but she doesn’t talk about him much. She doesn’t have a lot of free time, which is my fault, I suppose. If I’m on the move, then so is she.”
Brendan watched Lucy throw her head back and laugh, then looked at the tall, skinny man she was flirting with. He wasn’t doing much talking, and he kept looking toward the house. Maybe he was concerned that she was keeping him from his work.
He turned back to find Sahara and her mother head to head, talking. It wasn’t like they were sharing secrets, but it was touching to see. And then Sahara moved to the cabinets to set the table.
“Prepare yourself, McQueen. Crab salad, fresh croissants and bourbon-flavored ice cream. I will require a nap later, I think.”
He patted his stomach. “I’m going to start packing on the pounds if we’re here much longer,” he said.
Billie eyed his flat belly and well-muscled body and rolled her eyes.
“You are not packing anything but muscle, Brendan McQueen, and you know it. Would you please let Lucy know we’re going to eat?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and opened the door. “Hey, Lucy. Billie says lunch is ready.”
Lucy jumped as if she’d been punched, but when she started back to the house, Sutton came with her.
She ran into the house, her face flushed.
Sutton paused on the threshold and smiled at Sahara.
“Well, hey...long time, no see,” he drawled.
“Hi, Sutton. It’s really good to see you! Congratulations on the business. I hear you’re doing great.”
“I can’t complain,” he said, then glanced at Billie. “Miss Billie, I can’t plant the peace lilies in the hosta bed around the live oaks like you wanted. There are too many tree roots. I suggest a bed for them on the east side of the shed. They would get early light and then shade by midday and after.”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that, but it’s a good idea,” Billie said.
“Okay, then, I’ll get back to work. Lucy, nice to meet you,” he said.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Lucy said.
Sutton closed the door.
Billie smiled. “That man. He’s still as friendly as he was when he was a child.”
Sahara sat silent among the chatter without really listening. Her mind was on getting Leopold and Katarina interred.
“Mama, we have a problem,” she said.
Billie frowned. “What kind of problem?”
“Something just occurred to me regarding Katarina and Leopold’s memorial service. Traditionally, I would be attending it in church, and we would host snacks and drinks for the closest friends afterward.”
“Yes, that’s true,” Billie said.
“But that’s not going to happen,” Brendan said.
Sahara nodded. “Exactly. Without knowing the enemy’s face, I cannot expose myself to hundreds of people and expect Brendan to be able to keep me safe.”
Lucy spoke up without being asked. “Why don’t you just inter them and announce in the paper there will be a memorial service held at a later date?”
“That’s a good idea,” Brendan said.
“Yes,” Sahara agreed. “That would work. Thank you, Lucy. Thank you again for helping my messed-up life run smoother. That’s absolutely the perfect thing to do.”
Lucy smiled. “Happy to help. Besides, it’s why you pay me.”
“Okay, then. I’m going to call a funeral home and tell them to retrieve the bodies after the police release them, and inter them in the family mausoleum. I can have a notice put in the paper stating a later date will be set for a memorial service, which will satisfy everyone else,” Sahara said.
“Lunch will be ready in five minutes,” Billie said.
“Okay. I’ll wait and do it after lunch,” she said.
Billie relayed a funny story she’d seen as she was coming out of the bakery today. A toddler who was obviously potty training pulled down his pants and was peeing on a sidewalk, embarrassing the mother to no end as she grabbed him up and ran, unaware he was still peeing down the leg of her pants.
It was the perfect story to lighten the mood, and the joy that came with the telling was the only dessert Sahara wanted.
Then she told the group about her plans to clean up the penthouse and sell it.
“Really?” Lucy said. “Were they able to get the elevator fixed?”
“According to Harold, it should be fixed within a day or two.”
Lucy sat for a moment, as if considering her words. “If you want, I could go back and see if there’s actual damage visible after the cleaning crew went through it. Maybe do a little staging to sell, and pack up your clothes for you,” she said.
“You would be willing to do that?” Sahara asked. She had a feeling Lucy’s offer might have more to do with her wanting to get home to her boyfriend than it did with helping out Sahara, but after seeing her get perhaps a little too friendly with Sutton, she figured it would probably be a good idea.
“Yes, of course,” Lucy said.
“Then I’ll see where they are with the elevator repair and let you know when you’ll have full access again. I’ll check with Harold about arranging the trip and let you know.”
Lucy smiled, pleased her idea had been well received.
Brendan’s phone signaled a text. He glanced at it briefly. It was from his brother Carson.
I have news. Call when you get a chance.
He dropped the phone back in his pocket and finished eating while keeping an eye on the workers just outside the door. They were on the patio now, cleaning up the scattered pots and mangled flowers from the storm.
They finished the meal, helped Billie clean up and then went their separate ways. Lucy took Billie’s car to run errands for herself. Sahara watched her drive away from her bedroom upstairs and wished she had the freedom to just jump in the car and go anywhere at will. Instead, she was in jail—a luxurious one, but nevertheless, a jail.
But she had tasks to do.
“McQueen, I need to call Leopold’s lawyer.”
Once again, he handed her his phone.
She Googled Chapman Farraday, Esquire, then called.
The secretary answered. “Chapman Farraday’s office.”
“This is Sahara Travis. I need to speak to Mr. Farraday.”
“Yes, Miss Travis. One moment please.”
Seconds later she heard a click.
“Miss Travis, this is Chapman. My sincere sympathies on the deaths of your parents.”
“Thank you. The reason I called is to ask if my parents had prior plans made for burial.”
Farraday cleared his throat. “Why, yes, they did. I was reminded as I was rereading the papers regarding their estate. You are their sole heir and—”
“That is of no consequence to me,” she said. “I need to know where to bury them. I was never privy to the information regarding their family mausoleum.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” she said. “What cemetery?”
“Umm, that would be Lafayette Number 1. The family mausoleum is Greek Revival architecture...in the Travis name, of course.”
“Of course,” Sahara said. “Did he have any kind of prepaid funeral plan or a funeral home preference?”
“None mentioned,” Farraday said.
“Can you recommend a decent one? I would hate to pick something socially unacceptable.”
Farraday hadn’t seen Sahara since she was a girl, and it sounded as if she’d grown into a very aggressive woman—like Leopold, he supposed.
“Schoen Funeral Home would be a good choice.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And just so you know, their bodies will be interred without ceremony once they’re released from the morgue. I’ll hold a memorial service at a more dignified time...when I’m no longer the target of a killer. I’m requesting that you publish that notice, worded without mention of my current situation, of course, in all of the proper papers.”
Farraday was just slightly less than horrified.
“Oh dear, yes...of course.”
“Thank you for your help,” she said, and disconnected, then handed the phone to McQueen.
He was leaning against the desk with his arms crossed across his chest, watching her.
“What?” she said.
“Nice performance,” he said.
She frowned. “I must be losing my mojo if that came across fake.”
“Only to someone who knows you are everything but an ice queen.”
She sighed. “Whatever. By any chance do you know the number to the New Orleans PD?”
“Detective Fisher’s number is in my contacts.”
Her hands were starting to shake. “Would you do something for me?” she asked. “Would you call him and tell him that when they release the bodies, the authorities are to contact the Schoen Funeral Home, who will pick them up?”
He took the phone from her fingers and brushed a thumb across her lower lip.
“Yes, Sahara, I will do that for you.”
Exhausted, she threw herself belly-first onto her bed, legs sprawled, her cheek against a pillow, and closed her eyes. The last thing she remembered was hearing the low rumble of McQueen’s voice, and then she was dreaming.