“Have you ever known me not to be? She was dead before most of the wounds were made. Definitely before the poke in the neck.”
Shit, if Blades had said Shirley Cooper died of shortness of breath Nat wouldn’t feel any more hopeless.
Nat exercised his aching jaw. “Did you get good tissue samples? There must have been plenty under her nails and even in those wounds.”
“Matter,” Blades said. He crossed his arms and faced Nat. “There was matter, is matter. All over the place.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What I say. Not tissue, but matter. Unidentifiable stuff.”
A slow thud started in the region of Nat’s left temple. He massaged the spot. “I’m not following you.”
“We thought a gator had attacked the body. The wounds are consistent with that—maybe. Nothing else we can think of is. Every piece of trace evidence we’ve removed probably can’t be typed. I’m getting that from experts in the field. Very preliminary, but you can take it to the bank. We don’t think whoever, or whatever did this has DNA—not that fits with any DNA we know of.”
Chapter 20
Standing at the top of the steps to the front doors of the house called Bord de L’Eau, Gray understood how a wolf ought to feel silhouetted against the moon. Any hunter with good aim could pick him off.
He deliberately avoided checking out the spot where he’d parted from Marley. If she left, she left; he couldn’t control her.
Gray smiled. He didn’t imagine anyone would have an easy time trying to make Marley do what she didn’t want to do.
If he had not seen the two women and their driver go into the pink Italianate mansion, he would wonder if anyone was at home. The bell had echoed inside the house, but so far he hadn’t heard as much as a footfall in response.
He approached the door again, and it opened wide.
An elderly man, using a shiny black cane, turned brilliantly dark eyes to Gray’s face. “You’re not going away, are you?” he said. Thick white hair waved away from his unlined face. The skin was so fine and pale, a net of blue veins showed over his forehead and temples.
“Are you?” the man repeated, his voice strong and deep. “You’re going to stay until someone talks to you. I’m talking to you, have talked to you. Now you can go.”
Gray found his composure, and his voice, in that order. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “I’m Gray Fisher. I’m a journalist, and I’m working with Sidney and with Pipes Dupuis. They said they would be here.” He was stretching things a bit, but why not? Too bad he didn’t know Sidney’s last name.
“What would you want with her?” the man said. “Oh, come in, come in. For all I know you’ve got a photographer hiding in the bushes. Might as well get you inside.”
Gray stepped into a soaring, green-and-white marble hall that rose to a leaded-glass dome three exposed stories up. Staircases with intricate balustrades curved from either side to meet at a central landing on the second floor and from there more stairs and balustrades climbed in circles, revealing much more white stone, many marble busts, heavily carved doors, and an atmosphere of overpowering wealth.
“Could I talk to someone who lives here?” Gray asked the butler, or whatever he was. “Preferably Sidney and Pipes.”
“I live here,” the man said. “I am Bolivar Fournier. This is my house. Sidney Fournier is my granddaughter. I suppose this is something to do with her singing thing.”
“Yes,” Gray said.
Fournier snuffled. “Very well. We’d better see what we can do about you, then.”
“Grandfather?” The man who came from behind one of the staircases looked a lot like Sidney. “Who’s this?” He gave Gray a direct stare, but seemed friendly enough.
“He’s here to see your sister about writing something,” Bolivar Fournier said. “Gray Fisher, he said. He’s going to make that silly girl more inappropriate than she already is. Writing what people want to read about people like us.”
“Eric Fournier,” the younger man said, shooting out a hand and shaking Gray’s firmly.
“They’re all looking for ways to criticize us, you know,” Bolivar continued. “We’re too rich for them. They want what we’ve got. I told you no good would come of this singing thing of Sidney’s. Attracts the wrong kind of attention.”
“Sorry,” Eric said to Gray, shrugging. “Let’s go in here and I’ll give Sidney a call to come down.”
They went as a threesome into a surprisingly comfortable room furnished with antiques, but the kind that appeared touchable and touched. Gray sat on a faded purple chair with wooden arms while Eric picked up a telephone and pressed a button. “Someone’s here for you,” he said after a few moments.
“Pipes, too,” Gray said clearly.
Eric didn’t look thrilled. “Bring Pipes with you. It’s about an interview, I think. We’re in the nook.”
Their “nook” was bigger than two or three of the rooms together at the Marigny cottage Gray shared with his dad.
The grandfather made his way, cane giving dull thumps, to a chair that matched Gray’s and sat down slowly.
Silence closed in and Gray took it he wouldn’t be offered any other niceties.
From time to time Bolivar gave a dry cough. His chin slowly settled on his chest and he snored lightly.
Eric shoved his hands into the pockets of fine, gray silk slacks and propped himself against a gilt table. He looked off into the distance.
Sidney put her head around the door and did an inventory of those present before stepping across the threshold. Pipes entered immediately behind her, choosing where she put her feet so as to expose as little of herself as possible.
“I hoped we could make some headway,” Gray said, expecting Sidney to ask why he was following her and invading her home without an invitation. “Could you spare me half an hour or so? My editor is complaining about how long I’m taking on this story.” He looked significantly from Bolivar to Eric. Neither of them showed any sign of leaving.
“I forgot all about this,” Sidney said, her eyes wide. “I’m so sorry.” She checked her watch and made a face.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Gray said carefully.
“Yes, there is. I told you to come and now I’ve messed everything up. Pipes and I are going to sing together for the first time tonight. If we don’t practice, we’ll be terrible.”
Gray weighed his response.
“I’ll call you later, if you like,” Sidney said. “Would that work for you?”
She was lying for her brother and grandfather’s benefit. He didn’t have the faintest idea why. “Sure,” he said.
Pipes hovered. There was no other way to describe the way she rocked from one foot to the other, looking up from a narrow gap in her long, pale blond hair. Her hands moved incessantly.
“Why don’t you sit down, Pipes?”
Eric Fournier, talking to Pipes and reaching out to take her by the arm, surprised Gray. The man sounded entirely different now, engaged, animated—wholly focused on the singer.
She nodded and he ushered her gently to a window seat overlooking the grounds in front of the house.
Gray wanted, more strongly than he could believe, to look through that window. He wanted to know if Marley was still out there. He looked at his own watch and figured he had about twenty minutes before she could be racing away on the bike to get Nat Archer. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.
“I’m glad you’ve got Pipes staying with you,” Gray said, feeling his way. “The way things are in New Orleans, it’s not a good idea for a woman to be all alone.”
