Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) (9 page)

“You really need to get one of these instead of that tired old phone you use. Anything else?”

“We need to talk to Carey and Alais Sheehan. They were both in the house that night. Alais isn’t returning to college this semester. She goes to Ole Miss. See what you can dig up on her. Carey had swim practice yesterday. Maybe you could catch him there. May I recommend your schoolgirl look? He’s only thirteen, and hormonal.”

“You aren’t suggesting I take advantage of a child, are you? That’s sick.”

“I didn’t say
sleep
with him. Lift your mind out of the gutter. Isn’t your specialty getting information from men?”

She closed her Blackberry.

“He’s a boy, which is like shooting fish in a barrel. And my specialty is getting
money
from men.”

She slipped the phone into her purse and stood up.

“I’m off. I’ll get that report to you this afternoon, and e-mail a progress report to you tonight. Thanks for lunch, Chanse. Can I give you a lift home?”

“I have to stop by Wendell’s office and see if his campaign manager is back yet.” I put two twenties into the little tray the waitress had discreetly slipped onto our table, and stood up. “I take it you’re not dancing tonight? No class, either?”

“I took the week off. Makes the regulars tip more when you come back. Why do you ask?” We walked out into the blinding heat.

“There was a car parked on the other side of Coliseum Square from my place last night. Someone was just sitting there. It may have been nothing, but if the car’s there tonight, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out.”

Her face lit up. She loved doing surveillance.

“Give me a call if it’s there. Should be a piece of cake. I’ll bring the dogs. No one would suspect a girl walking her dogs, right?”

I couldn’t help grinning as I watched her walk away. A little more experience under her belt and she was going to be the best private eye in Louisiana. Maybe I should make her a partner.

*

The only person in Wendell’s campaign office now was a short, stocky man with reddish-blond hair and a red face wet with sweat, talking into his cell phone. His blue button-down shirt was soaked at the armpits. He waved me into a seat by his desk, looking apologetic. I listened to his end of the call.

“Uh-huh…yes, I know…there’s got to be another viable candidate somewhere in the state…I always said it was unlikely we’d have both senators from New Orleans…it’s never happened before and you know how those Baptists in North Louisiana are. They hate everything about South Louisiana…they hate Catholics and think New Orleans is Sodom and Gomorrah all over again…I know…a Sheehan would have had the best shot, especially with Cordelia campaigning. She’s only a little less popular than the Virgin Mary…All right…I have someone here. I’ll call you later.”

He flipped his phone closed and smiled weakly.

“Sorry about that. How can I help you?”

“Are you Stephen Robideaux?”

“I am.”

He stuck his hand out. It was warm and moist and soft. I gave it a brief grasp and shake, letting go as soon as I politely could, resisting the urge to wipe my hand on my pants leg.

“Chanse MacLeod. I stopped by earlier. I’ve been hired by Cordelia Sheehan to look into her son’s death.”

“Rory told me. I have your card here somewhere.” He gestured at the top of his desk, a scattered, disorganized mess, and gave me a sheepish smile. “I was going to call. Anything I can do to help the Sheehans, you can count me in.”

“Do you mind answering some questions?”

“Fire away.” His face went white. “I’m sorry, that was in poor taste, given the circumstances.”

“Rory told me you came down from Lafayette to run Wendell’s campaign?”

“More or less. I worked for the state party for a long time, and I run a consulting business for political campaigns. I’ve helped elect quite a few Democrats to Baton Rouge. But this was my first campaign for a national office. In fact, I was the one who convinced Wendell to run in the first place.”

He seemed proud of himself, a little pompous, like he was trying to impress me.

“Really? How did that come about?”

“When his first wife died and he retired from public life, it was a loss for the entire state. Wendell was a rising star, and with the Sheehan and Spencer names behind him, there would have been no stopping him. He was attorney general, remember, and the state party was prepping him for a run at the governor’s mansion. Next it could have been the White House. You never know.”

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “But his wife’s death devastated him. He backed away from everything and focused on running the family business and raising his daughter. I thought maybe when he remarried he’d return to politics, but no.”

“He ran for mayor.” I pointed out.

“The hurricane and what happened after woke a lot of us up. Wendell realized that Louisiana—the country—lacked leadership. He saw the direction the country had been going in while he wasn’t involved, and he didn’t like it. Actually, he
hated
it. So he ran for mayor.”

“I voted for him.” I said.

“As long as I live I will never understand the outcome of that election. Maybe there were shenanigans involved—it wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened in New Orleans. But Wendell decided he could do more good for New Orleans, and Louisiana, in the Senate. After the scandal about the incumbent and his penchant for prostitutes, I came down to meet with him. It wasn’t hard to convince him to run for that seat. We were getting support like you wouldn’t believe, from all over the state. The Sheehan name was like money in the bank—or ballots in the box, if you’ll forgive me. Granted, the election is still two years away, but by the time it truly geared up we would have had an unbeatable machine put together.”

“Do you think political enemies could have done this? Someone who didn’t want him in the Senate?”

“I seriously doubt it. Murder isn’t their style. They prefer slander and innuendo. Not that they were in a position to throw stones. I was really looking forward to doing rebuttal ads to whatever they threw at us. There was no viable opponent for the primary; all the primary drama is going to be on the other side, and I don’t think even they would go as far as murder. This whole thing is such a mess. Do the police really think Cordelia could have shot him? I find that so hard to believe. It’s just not like her.”

“I’m not privy to the police investigation, so I can’t answer that. But she fired the gun, and hers were the only fingerprints on it.”

“I’m sure there’s another explanation.”

“You were here the night of the murder?”

“Wendell and I met with some potential donors, and then we came here to make calls. He was in a really good mood. He left around eight.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“No. I assumed he was going home.”

“Did you notice anything odd in the days before? Did he seem worried, or upset about anything?”

“Wendell was the consummate politician, always smiling, always cheerful, always in a good mood. He never let anyone see what he was really feeling. To be honest, I didn’t really know him that well. All we ever talked about was politics, the state of the country, strategy, what he wanted to do when he got to the Senate.”

“And how did things seem between Wendell and his wife?”

“I couldn’t have picked a better wife for a candidate.”

This was the first time anyone had said something positive about Janna.

“Really? I was under the impression she was a liability to him.”

“Not at all. Wendell was Louisiana aristocracy, born to privilege and power. So of course he’d be called an elitist. But his wife was young, beautiful, smart, engaging, with a charisma all her own. She was brought up poor, went to public schools. The bastard son could have been a problem, but when you balance that against an opponent who goes to prostitutes, it didn’t seem like such a big deal. And while Wendell was pro-choice, the fact that his wife chose to keep her baby instead of having an abortion was something we could work with. It made her even more appealing to voters. She could talk about what she went through, her decision to have the baby. Wendell was perfect. Janna was perfect. And with Cordelia out there campaigning—she’s part of what we call the Holy Trinity, along with Lindy Boggs and Marjorie Morrison—the Republicans wouldn’t have had a chance.”

“How did Wendell feel about Janna being involved in the campaign?”

“At first he was worried about how she’d do, how she would handle the pressure. I met with her a few times, and talked to her. She’s very bright, and learns fast. I like her a lot. We did a luncheon up in Baton Rouge where she spoke to the League of Women Voters. They would have elected
her
. After that, Wendell had no doubts about her.”

“Did they seem happily married?”

“I don’t know what went on when they were in private, but publicly they were a happy, loving couple.”

“What about his friends, the people he hung out with and confided in?”

“I don’t think he really had a lot of close friends. He knew a lot of people, but I don’t think you could call them friends.” Stephen shook his head. “I can’t help you there.”

“And you have no idea where he might have gone when he left here on Monday night?”

“Not if he didn’t go straight home.”

His cell phone rang, a tinkling version of Alice Cooper’s old hit “Elected.” He looked at it. “I have to take this. Do you mind?”

I offered him my hand. “Thank you.”

“Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“One last thing. Do you know how his first wife died?”

“She fell down the stairs and broke her neck. A terrible tragedy.”

He answered the phone.                                       

I waved and walked out into the sunshine.

*

Within seconds I was drenched in sweat. I removed my shirt, tucked it through a belt buckle and walked down Melpomene towards home.

Grace Sheehan fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck. Roger Palmer had fallen down a flight of stairs and broken his neck. This was too many coincidences involving the same group of people, and the common denominator was Wendell Sheehan. Abby had said it was almost like Roger Palmer’s death was a blueprint for Wendell’s, but there were more similarities between Roger’s death and Grace Sheehan’s. Was it possible that Wendell was somehow involved in both accidents?

At Coliseum Square, I looked to see if the car was parked in the same place, and cursed myself for being a paranoid idiot when it wasn’t. There was no reason for anyone to be staking out my house. But my job required me to be suspicious. If it
was
something, at least I’d alerted Abby to it.

I climbed my steps and unlocked the front door. When I pushed it open, a large manila envelope skidded across the floor to behind my sofa. I locked the door behind me, picked up the envelope and carried it to my desk. I checked my phone for messages—there weren’t any—and sat down and opened the envelope.

It contained about thirty sheets of paper. Each sheet had photocopies of three checks drawn on an account titled WENDELL SHEEHAN, DISCRETIONARY FUNDS, and each check was for five thousand dollars. All of them were made out to Kenneth Musgrave. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. The top sheet was dated October 1, 1999. Each successive check was dated the first of the month, and every check was for five thousand dollars. Wendell had paid Kenneth Musgrave over five hundred thousand dollars in a little less than ten years.

Who the hell was he, and what was the money for? Blackmail? And who’d put the envelope through my mail slot?

Curiouser and curiouser
, I thought as I turned on my computer.

Loren McKeithen tossed the photocopied checks onto my coffee table.

“I have no idea who Kenneth Musgrave is, or what this is about,” he said. “It could be blackmail, but it could also be any number of other things. I don’t see what relevance it has to what’s going on now, though. You think this might have something to do with Wendell’s death?”

He picked up his tall glass of vodka tonic and took a drink. My own drink sat untouched on the table. Loren had finally returned my call while I was at the gym. It had been almost a week since I’d worked out (I find it good for clearing the mind). He always brought a bottle of premium vodka with him when he came to my apartment. He was one of those people whom drink never seemed to affect. I’d learned that it was best to be on my guard around him—and vodka, no matter how premium, was not my friend in that situation.

“There’s a reason the name isn’t familiar to you,” I said, ignoring his question. “I did some poking around after I got these. Kenneth Musgrave was Grace Sheehan’s half-brother. They had different fathers.”

“Then it was probably a family thing.”

I picked up my glass and took a sip. It was damned good vodka.

“Family members have stooped to blackmail before. Regardless, I’m curious as to who thought I should know about this—and why.”

“I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of it,” Loren said.