Chapter 5
“I don’t know what we’re going to do—I just don’t know what we’re going to do,” Larry Blythe, Colleen’s business manager said.
He wasn’t in tears, but definitely seemed on the verge. He was nervously running his fingers up and down his coffee cup as he sat with Danni in the little café toward the entry to the lodge. She was trying to ask him questions. He was, she thought, a naturally nervous little man. Not really little—she was fairly tall, about five-ten, and it seemed he was smaller than she was. Not that other men weren’t sometimes, but he was also thin, wore thin-framed glasses, and simply had a nervous look about him.
She set a hand on his, trying to calm, or assure him.
“You just don’t understand,” he said. “I mean, Ally…she had brains, you know. Yes, yes, you’ll hear people say she was a bitch, but not really—it was just her way. Her mind was always working, you know? She could come up with facts and figures like no one else—and when Colleen wanted something believed in, Ally could put that vision together for her. Colleen, she…well, if it weren’t for me and Ally, she’d still be dreaming her dreams, because her heart is huge—but her head for finances is almost non-existent!” He stopped speaking long enough to shake his head and stare at her, frowning. “You’re not a cop. I heard you’re an artist who owns a shop on Royal Street in New Orleans. The Charmed Puppy, or something like that.”
“Cheshire Cat,” Danni said, “and—”
“Colleen wanted to buy a lot of your art for this place,” he said. He shook his head again, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, you’re married to a cop, that big guy!”
“We aren’t married, and Quinn isn’t a cop. He is a private investigator.”
“Oh. oh,” he said, looking at her as if it should have explained her questions, but it just didn’t really.
“I do a lot of research and interviewing for Quinn.”
“And,” he said, his voice sounding strangled, “you’re going to find out what happened to our Ally!” He moved closer to her. “It’s a rite—or voodoo. These people out here—they’re very strange. I’ve heard they’re different. They’re not like people in cities. They’re voodoo people who raise the devil or something like that.”
“Mr. Blythe, I have friends in the city who practice voodoo, and please believe me, they’re very good people who would never hurt anyone,” Danni said.
“Right. Sure.”
He didn’t believe her.
“So, not voodoo. Another weird cult. Pagans or Satanists. They did it. They killed our Ally.”
“Larry, right now, we don’t know who killed Ally—and that’s why we need everyone’s help.”
“Help. Yes, of course, I’ll help you. I wish I could help you. That’s just it—Ally was always working. The rest of us, we headed out here—from NOLA—together. We were all here in the afternoon, getting ready for last night’s mixer. But no, Ally had to check on some future gig she wanted to talk to us about once she got here, and now…she’s ruined everything!” he finished in a whisper.
Danni arched her brows, surprised by his words. “Larry, I hardly think she was murdered, slashed horribly, on purpose.”
“Oh, God!” he said stricken. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded at all! I meant, her being murdered…I mean, for Ally of course. It’s heart-breaking. But this is also huge for Colleen. I mean, first of all, she had Trent Anderson here. That meant so much. I mean the idea is you could have chatted online, and then seen one another face to face here, in a safe place. Or, you could come to one of Colleen’s lodges, see someone, and then chat them up online. I mean, she’s right. Even if you’re perfect for each other on a piece of paper, it doesn’t mean the chemistry will mix or that you’ll even like each other!”
“Yes, of course,” Danni murmured. “I understand all of that, but I’m trying very hard to discover—did anyone know anything about the car that picked Ally up to bring her out here?”
He shook his head. “You had to have known Ally. She was as independent as a curse! She’d snap at you if you tried to help. She did things as she wanted. She and I were both the business end of things—along with Albert Bennett. Albert always arranged for security—on the computer, and when we’re setting things up for an event like this.” He brightened suddenly. “Maybe Albert knows something—he and Ally…”
“He and Ally…what?” Danni pursued.
“It’s not my place,” Larry said.
“Please, Larry, Ally is dead. Anything you can say…”
He shook his head. “It’s over all ready. She was found in the cemetery. Up on a pole like a scarecrow with another man and a…corpse! And another murder right before—in New Orleans! This has to be some kind of a crazy cult killing. Me talking about my co-workers isn’t going to help anything.”
“Larry, please—it honestly could help.”
He sighed, looking around nervously. Danni knew she had to go and see Colleen again and help in any way she could, but she was trying to speak with Colleen’s top people first.
She’d already seen Tracy Willard—in the cemetery. She needed to speak with Albert Bennett, but perhaps it was important to hear what Larry had to say about him, first.
“I don’t really know anything,” he said, “but sometimes, when I’d see them together, I’d think there was something going on between them. I think…” he paused awkwardly. Then without her prompting, he continued in a rush, “Ally was strange in many ways. She was always moving forward—she’d hitched her wagon to a star, she believed, and she was going to push it all the way, become rich herself. Ally didn’t need to be famous—just rich. I think sex might have been like breathing to her—something necessary now and then…and Albert is a good-looking guy.”
“What did Colleen think?”
“Colleen only sees the good in people. She’s oblivious.” He sighed deeply again. “I might be wrong. Tracy liked to flirt with Albert, too.”
“Was Ally jealous?”
“God, no. Like I said. Sex was just a physical function, needed now and then. Then again, when I’d see Tracy with some of our clients, I’d think there was something going on there, too.”
Danni stayed quiet. She believed Tracy had been doing more than flirting with Trent Anderson.
“Thank you, Larry.”
“But, you see what I mean? Office dynamics could have had nothing to do with this. Perryville is certainly a weird little town, and I’d bet this is some kind of crazy thing out of New Orleans. Scarecrows tend to be more in the countryside, but crazy—that’s New Orleans.” He was talking about her city. Yes, it could be crazy, but there were so many beautiful and wonderful things about the city, too, she couldn’t help but take offense at his tone.
“Trust me,” she murmured. “Crazy can be anywhere.”
He didn’t seem to hear her; he was looking toward the counter.
“Oh, there’s Albert, if you want to talk to him—I can go get him. Oh, you won’t say I said anything, will you?”
Danni looked to the counter. Albert Bennett was ordering coffee, offering the young girl behind the counter a flashing white smile.
He was a big man, and an arresting one. She could easily see how he might have charmed both Ally and Tracy Willard.
“I’m fine; I’ll ask him if we might talk,” Danni said. She didn’t want to question him with Larry Blythe present. She wanted to hear what he had to say for himself.
“Well, good, I have work to do—we’re checking in with all our clients, trying to assure them Ally got caught in a mess that has nothing to do with the weekend. Of course, we’re all broken-heartened, but as sad as the situation is, they don’t need to leave. We’ll be going on as we planned.”
After Larry took his leave, Danni walked to the counter. Albert Bennett, handsome in a perfectly tailored suit, looked at her and offered her a smile. “Danni! How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, thank you. I didn’t know Ally. This must be devastating for you, though.”
“A non-fat latte, Mr. Bennett,” the girl behind the counter said. She studied Danni, and looked like she was trying to decide if Danni was someone in authority or if she might be competition for the man’s attention.
Whichever, she turned away.
“Albert, would you sit down with me for a minute?” she asked.
He looked at her somewhat surprised, but said, “My pleasure. Certainly.”
Apparently, he thought she was flirting—even though he had seen her with Quinn.
“I have a number of duties to attend to—complicated by events, but,” he told her, and winked, “I always have a few minutes for a beautiful woman, especially one who is an old friend of the boss!” He pulled out a chair for her at one of the café tables, adding, “I’d rather thought you were with Mr. Very Tall and Muscled last night—Flynn…Finn…can’t recall exactly, but he had the look of a cop or maybe FBI.”
“Neither, and his name is Quinn. He’s a private investigator, and yes, we’re together,” Danni said.
He had taken his seat, but the look on his face then denoted that he didn’t know why. He was clearly wasting his time.
“Mr. Bennett,” she said, getting right to it, “I’d like to ask you about Allison Caldwell, Ally.”
He looked surprised—and then guarded.
“She’s dead; we learned that this morning. Horribly murdered in that old derelict cemetery by some crazy cult or wiccan or voodoo person or persons.”
“You don’t seem very upset about a co-worker,” she said.
He sighed. “I’m upset. And the way it was done…but you didn’t know Ally.”
“I’m sorry, what does that mean?”
His expression was pained, and he frowned quizzically as he looked down, and then up at her.
“Why are you…? I mean, I talked to cops this morning, you know. We all did. You’re an artist, right, not a cop? You know—you could be an artist’s model, if you’re not…I mean, if Colleen was buying things just because you are her friend. Oh, wow, that didn’t come out right at all, I’m afraid. Well, the situation is a mess. I just mean you’re attractive…sleek, elegant, still natural…you’d make a good model. I don’t want to mess with Mr. Very Tall and Muscular Quinn—it’s an observation, nothing more.”
“Thank you. Yes, I’m an artist, a decent artist. I do many local scenes, and I’m sure the fact I’m friends with Colleen made her think of my work, but I’m just trying to help Quinn out a bit here, chatting with people, seeing if anything will help. So, please, tell me, what did you mean by telling me I didn’t know Ally?”
He appeared to be pained again. “You’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead,” he murmured.
“Did you have an affair with her?”
“Affair?” He asked, offering a dry and crooked smile. “Ally didn’t have affairs.”
“So, no.”
“No, I never had an affair with her. Did I sleep with her? Yes. A few times, but…sex was like a business deal with her. No foreplay, no small talk. A business deal. Sign on the dotted line, and you’re done. She was a huge fan of another dating site—one with a title that spelled it all out—Quickie. You could really just walk by someone and see if they wanted sex then, just then, no names needed, go for it and done. That was Ally. There was something…something missing in her. What I meant was if she had gotten into something with someone local—say a killer just looking for a random victim—he might have thought she was a great person to off. She could be downright rude.”
Danni looked at him, nodding slowly. He seemed sincere. He wasn’t trying to look away from her; he wanted her to understand.
“Did that hurt you?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I knew her—I knew exactly what she wanted. She was a pretty woman, built nicely…sex was casual. For her—and for me. She knew it would be over for me if I did meet someone, while…”
“While?”
“While she was never looking for someone. And she’d have never found anyone. She didn’t want a relationship or children. She was…different. Oh, huh. I did forget one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Maybe nothing, but…”
“But, please, what?”
He shrugged. “I’m not pulling this out of my hat—we talked now and then.” He grimaced. “Not during sex or anything, but just about the site, the future, and our own feelings on things. She was clear she didn’t want marriage or baggage, that her career and her own determination on her future were key in her life. But now and then she did express interest in a client. You know, casual things when we were vetting people for the site. Yes, she’d take a tumble with this man or someone being good looking. She did tell me looks didn’t count for all that much in bed, but why try out ugly merchandise? She said once she did have an interest in meeting a man who would be here for this event. Colleen’s big ‘coup,’ more or less. That rich guy—he was here last night. Trent Anderson. Definitely interested in a tumble, and if he didn’t smell bad or have rotten teeth, she would consider marriage. She said with his kind of money, she’d think about it. Even if she married him for a year or two and got a divorce. That kind of money, well, it could buy a hell of a lot.”
“She’d never met him in person?”
“Not that I know of—we all just met him last night.”
“I see,” Danni said.
“Hey, I attract women. But that guy—they were all over him last night like bees on honey. I guess he’s the whole package—and he didn’t seem to smell. Not that I got close.”
“So, she never met him, and no one knew last night she was…being murdered.”
“I guess not. Was she murdered during our event?”
“I don’t know,” Danni said honestly. “She was found just this morning.”
“You should talk to him,” Bennett said.
“Yes.” She didn’t say she already had—that she’d met up with him in the cemetery where Ally’s body had been strung up.
She asked, “Did you order the car for her? Your job is security—don’t you make sure the companies you worked with are vetted?”
“I do. But I didn’t order the car for her. She was angry when the rest of us tried to help her—she said she’d take care of things herself.” He pursed his lips and shook his head suddenly. “I wish I could help you. I really wish I could. This is a huge tragedy—and Colleen is just the best person in the world and doesn’t deserve this. I mean, Ally didn’t either. She was cold as ice, but I’m still sorry as all hell. But seriously—this has to be something local, right? Or some cult out of New Orleans. I heard they had a similar murder—it’s on the news. People killed in a private family cemetery.”
“Yes, people were killed in New Orleans,” Danni said.
“Crazy people everywhere, right? Sick! The newscaster was talking about a possible cult sacrificing to a harvest god or the like. They don’t really harvest a lot in the French Quarter or in the City of New Orleans, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” Danni said.
“People—they’re scary as hell, huh?” he said. “That’s why I’m far more than what most people think—a bouncer of some kind. I look people up. I find out about them. I keep the pedophiles and pretenders off our site.” He rose then, looking down at her. “I want to help. If I think of anything, anything at all, I’ll make sure that I tell your Mr. Quinn.”
“Thank you,” Danni said, rising herself. She wanted to see how Colleen was doing and then get to her room and call Quinn. She also wanted to get back to the diaries and books no library should have really let her take out—but Perryville was small. Also didn’t hurt to befriend the librarian.
It might be important to tell Quinn about Yvette’s diary and about the relationships—and lack of them—that had taken place between Ally Caldwell and her co-workers.
***
“On both Miss Caldwell and our John Doe,” Dr. Harper said, “I believe the killer to have been right-handed. He came upon his victims from behind, grabbed them, and slit their throats hard and fast, causing death almost instantly with that kind of blood spill. We’re working on it, but we don’t know the name of our second victim.”
Peter Ellsworth had reached the morgue ahead of Quinn and Larue.
Photographs had been taken; the bodies had been cleaned.
There was no small talk as they stood at the side of the body the doctor worked over—that of Allison Caldwell.
Ellsworth stepped back, not wanting his voice to ruin the integrity of the recording Dr. Harper had been making through the microphone that hung above the body.
He spoke softly, saying, “We’ve had a police artist do a sketch for us on our unknown male victim—we’ll be getting the image out on the news, and hopefully someone will know who he is. We’ve asked for help from Lafayette, Baton Rouge, and New Orleans as well, so we don’t believe it will be long.”
Harper continued speaking.
“Miss Caldwell’s cause of death was the initial strike, that which severed the jugular vein and all major vessels within the throat, causing quick exsanguination—the rest of the injuries were done post-mortem—twenty more stab wounds.” He turned off the recording machine, looking from Larue to Ellsworth and then Quinn. “I believe the murders were made to appear even more brutal than they were,” Dr. Harper said. “Death was fairly quick—both victims would have lost consciousness quickly and died almost immediately after. The stab wounds were for show.”
Quinn looked at Larue. “What about the victims in NOLA?” Quinn asked.
“The same; Hubert is on the case,” Larue said.
Quinn liked Dr. Hubert—they’d wound up working a very strange case that had involved one of his ancestors together. He had come to know the man and appreciate his talent and his integrity.
“When were they killed?” Quinn asked. If Harper believed it had been before midnight or one A.M., he could eliminate many people—those who had been at the mixer.
“We found our New Orleans victims yesterday, early morning as well—but they’d been there for hours before they were discovered,” Larue said.
“Plenty of time for a killer to drive out here,” Quinn murmured.
“Oh, yes, definitely. Your victims were killed a day before the victims here,” Dr. Harper said. “My best estimation on Miss Caldwell and our John Doe is that they were killed sometime soon after midnight—probably five or six hours before they were discovered. I investigate the bodies and you investigate the rest, but I’m thinking my estimate of sometime between midnight and one is just about on the money, though there are, of course, variables that make any estimation just that—an estimate of time.”
“But no earlier?” Quinn asked.
Harper shook his head. “No. After midnight. Both victims were facing away from the killer. They were taken by complete surprise. There are no defensive wounds. The killer slipped up behind each of them and struck with speed and strength. A right-handed killer, making the slash deep and hard, from the left to the right.”
“Same as in New Orleans,” Larue murmured.
“Same everything?” Quinn asked, looking from Harper to Larue.
Dr. Harper answered that. “I wasn’t in New Orleans, but Detective Larue has had Dr. Hubert and I exchange photos and information from our crime scenes. It does appear that the ‘scarecrows’ were set up the same, and that the killings themselves were the same. Oh—there are fewer bones in the New Orleans picture, but in a private cemetery, you’re not going to have as many dead to draw upon.”
“No,” Quinn said, glancing at Larue. He’d known Larue had been communicating with his team back in New Orleans and with the morgue. He’d done some of his calling from the car, but they’d reached the morgue too quickly for him to know everything that had been said. “Why would the killer have picked that cemetery when he had St. Louis I, II, and III to choose from in the city and massive cemeteries in Metairie?”
Larue shook his head.
“Line of sight,” Ellsworth suggested. “Out here, who the hell was going to see what was going on—unless some teenagers were out to get high or fool around? Same thing—maybe the killer knew only one person lived in the old mansion, and they didn’t have video security. Maybe, had the young woman who owned the place happened upon the killer, she would have just wound up as a victim on a scarecrow, too.”
“Don’t mind me—though you are at my autopsy,” Dr. Harper said. “Calculating and running theories is good—so you should get to it. You can stay for the bitter details, but I’ll give you full reports as soon as I’ve completed the autopsies.”
“I think you’re right. I think our time might be better spent trying to figure out how these people came to be this way—and not if, but where, the killer intends to strike again,” Quinn said, “and Larue, we do need to know everything we can about the New Orleans victims. Find out if there is any relationship between them and our victims here.”
“You don’t think this is simply a sick mind at work? They were taken by random selection—say, Miss Caldwell simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time? What association might she have with a young tourist in New Orleans? She was from New York, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she was from New York,” Quinn said. “But Colleen Rankin also has a small office in New Orleans. There could be a connection. Or it could be a play upon old legends or superstitions.”
“I’m going back to the Honeywell Lodge,” Peter Ellsworth said. “I left officers out there while we were at the cemetery, but I’d like a chance to do a little milling and questioning myself. What is your plan, Larue—Quinn?”
Quinn glanced at his watch. It was getting late—six. Dark out already. He wanted to get to New Orleans, but two hours in and two hours out—maybe a little less, maybe a little more.
“We can head out for the city early tomorrow,” Larue said.
Quinn nodded. He wanted to go that night. At the same time, he didn’t feel comfortable about leaving Danni there at night. He could ask her to come with him, but he had a feeling Danni was more useful here. She had an easy personality and usually managed a quick rapport with people—especially when they looked on a private eye or a cop with wariness and suspicion.
“We’ll head out first thing in the morning. Tonight, I want to see if I can hunt down any connection between the victims and continue the hunt for the car.”
“All of our officers are aware they need to be on the lookout for an abandoned car, a dark sedan,” Ellsworth said. “We know that because we have a witness as to the fact it was here—a man who saw the car.”
“What?” Quinn said.
“John Appleby. Looks like a skeleton of an old rock star, but he’s really an intelligent, decent and hardworking man. He happened by the cemetery and saw Ally Caldwell. It was late; he had been returning from one of his meetings and saw Ally outside the cemetery. He stopped and offered her a ride. She ran into the cemetery. Said he said he saw the car—a dark sedan, black, he thinks, and he saw Ally Caldwell. He was the last one to see her alive.”
“What time?”
“Somewhere around midnight, he thinks,” Ellsworth said.
“Is it possible to see him and speak with him?” Quinn asked.
“Sure. He’ll meet us at the lodge, if you wish—and if we buy him some dinner. That always helps,” Ellsworth said.
“I’d love to buy him some dinner,” Quinn said.
“Let’s do it then, shall we?” Larue suggested. “It’s late and getting later.”
Dr. Harper cleared his throat. “I will let you all have the reports as soon as possible. By the way, we may not have identified our male victim yet, but we have identified our corpse. The gentleman turned to straw with the others was Creighton Leary, interred last week in the cemetery in his family vault.”
Peter Ellsworth stated at him. “You’re just telling me that?”
Dr. Harper tapped the earpiece he was wearing. “Just got a positive I.D. in.”
“Then we need to get back to the cemetery—get our crime scene investigators all over the Leary tomb!” Ellsworth said.
“You should do that, of course, but you’re not going to find anything,” Quinn said.
Ellsworth stared at him indignantly.
“Every murderer makes a mistake somewhere,” he said.
“Yes, true—possible. Crime scene investigators need to be out there. But I’m heading back to the lodge, see what I can find out from people—and the Internet,” Quinn told him. “I suggest, too, you get your people looking into every cemetery in the area. I’m afraid this killer might well strike again tonight, if not tonight, then very soon.”
“He might strike in Baton Rouge, or Lafayette, New Iberia—St. Charles!” Ellsworth said.
“I think it’s going to be here,” Quinn said.
“Why is that? What evidence?” Ellsworth asked.
“No evidence. But this guy likes threes. Three scarecrows. And two scenes, so far. That means a third display is in the offing. Do I have evidence? No. This is sheer gut feeling, but I want to get to the lodge. I want to get on the computer, and I want to talk to your eye witness, Mr. John Appleby. He just may know more than he knows he knows!”