Authors: Erica Spindler
And Louise had known Jeff. If it had been him—back from the dead—she would have recognized him.
Mira pulled to the side of the road, hopped out of her car and hurried to Louise Latrobe’s wide front porch. She rang the bell, waiting, thoughts racing as she searched for what she would say. Subtlety, she thought. She would start in a neighborly fashion: she was there to advise her she’d left her porch light burning. She would ease into who the woman might have seen “coming and going at all hours.” Mira couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of this before.
She rang the bell again, then knocked forcefully.
“Mrs. Latrobe? Louise? It’s Mira Gallier.”
Still the woman didn’t answer. Mrs. Latrobe rarely left her home. Her Friday-afternoon shampoo and set at the beauty salon and the occasional doctor’s appointment. She even had her groceries delivered.
Could she have fallen ill? Or had an accident? Could she be in the hospital? It would explain the light burning in the daytime. And it wouldn’t be so surprising, considering her age.
Mira peered through the leaded-glass sidelight. A lamp was on in the front parlor as well. Of what she could see, nothing looked out of place.
“Mrs. Latrobe,” she called again, pounding this time, urgency tugging at her. “It’s Mira Gallier. Please, I need to talk to you!”
When there was still no answer, Mira darted down the steps and circled around back. She knocked on that door as well, with the same outcome. Feeling like a thief, she tried the door.
Locked.
She made her way back around front. It was as hot as hell and unbearably muggy. Welcome to New Orleans in August. Sweat beaded her upper lip and rolled down her back. Her cotton shirt clung to her sticky skin.
The woman wasn’t home, Mira told herself even as she climbed the steps. She could try back later, question her then. That’s what a logical, completely sane person would do.
At this moment, Mira felt anything but logical. Or sane.
Somebody was tormenting her. It might or might not be tied to three murders—ones the police believed she had something to do with.
And Louise Latrobe very well might know—or be able to identify—the person responsible.
Mira glanced quickly over her shoulder, then reached for the doorknob.
It turned. The door clicked open.
Mira’s heart sank. She hadn’t expected that. She’d tried out of desperation, out of an unwillingness to give up.
Mrs. Latrobe trusted no one. Just as she wouldn’t leave lights burning all day, she wouldn’t leave her front door unlocked.
This was bad. Something was wrong.
In life, moments presented themselves where a critical choice had to be made. Go forward? Or back away? Both held risks. And either way could be second-guessed for a lifetime.
Now was one of those moments.
“Louise,” she called softly, stepping into the foyer, “it’s Mira Gallier. I’m checking to make sure you’re all right.”
The house was quiet save for the tick of the massive grandfather clock standing sentinel against the opposite wall. The interior was warm with a subtle, underlying sour smell.
Like food that had gone bad or garbage that hadn’t been covered. Mira wrinkled her nose in distaste. She headed for the parlor where she had seen the light burning. It was the parlor on the side of the house that bordered hers. A large wingback chair faced the window, its broad back toward the entry. On the small table beside it sat a pair of binoculars.
“Louise?” she called again. Nothing appeared out of order. She swept her gaze lower, to the floor. It landed on a small, pale hand peeking out from in front of the chair.
Mira caught her breath. “Mrs. Latrobe,” she whispered. “Please say something.”
But she didn’t. And never would again. Louise Latrobe lay faceup on the floor in front of the chair, face twisted into a terrible death mask.
On her forehead, in the same orange color that tinted the woman’s lips, was the number 4.
Mira stood in frozen horror. She wanted to run but couldn’t move. She heard herself scream, yet no sound escaped her.
The grandfather clock struck the hour. The sound jolted her from her terrified state. She turned and ran, one scream after another ripping past her lips.
She’d left the front door open. Mira darted through it, onto the porch—and smack into Stacy Killian.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, August 17
1:03
P.M.
“Help!” Mira cried. “It’s my neighbor. I think she’s … she’s dead!”
Stacy grasped her upper arms. “Slow down, Mira. Look at me. That’s right. Focus. Take a deep breath.”
Mira did as Stacy ordered, holding her gaze, breathing deeply. At first, her legs shook so badly she feared she would fall if Stacy let her go. But gradually, as the seconds ticked past, they grew steadier, her head less light.
“Good,” Stacy said, dropping her hands. “Tell me what happened.”
“Mrs. Latrobe … Louise … I came over to talk to her. She didn’t answer … I went in and … there she was.”
“Where?”
She shuddered, remembering. “On the floor. In the parlor.”
“Did you touch her?”
She shook her head.
“Did you touch anything else?”
“No.”
“Good. Now I have to go inside, just for a minute, then I’ll be right back. I need you to stay here. Can you do that?”
Mira nodded, though her teeth began to chatter.
Stacy disappeared into the house. Mira squeezed her eyes shut against the image that popped into her head: of the woman’s horrible expression and that vile orange 4 on her forehead.
Poor Mrs. Latrobe. Who could have done this?
Stacy reappeared. She was on her cell phone. “I’m at the scene. Yes, she’s with me. You got it. Love you, too.”
Detective Malone.
It suddenly occurred to Mira how much trouble she was in. How this must look. “Oh, my God.”
Stacy pocketed her phone. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t do this.”
“No one said you did.”
“But Detective Malone … he’s been questioning me about those other murders … now—” She brought her hands to her face. “What’s happening to me?”
Stacy came to stand directly in front of her. “Spencer’s on his way. He’s on your side and so am I. Tell us everything and we can help you.”
She dropped her hands. “Do you really think you can?”
“I do, Mira. I promise.” Stacy took a small spiral notebook and pen from her back pocket. “What was your relationship with Mrs. Latrobe?”
“We’re neighbors.”
“Were you friendly?”
“Not especially. But we never had words. Not really.”
“Not really? What does that mean?”
Mira hugged herself. “She was a busybody. Spent most of her time spying on her neighbors. Especially me. Sometimes she would make a comment. Or complain.”
At the sound of a car door slamming, Mira glanced at the street. Detective Malone, she saw, hurrying up the walk. A moment later came the sound of sirens. An ambulance and two police cruisers.
“Okay, Mira, look at me,” Stacy said. “Let them do their job, you talk to me. Like we’re just two girlfriends, out for lunch.”
She nodded, wishing they were. “Strange things have been happening to me. I thought Mrs. Latrobe could help. Because of her spying.”
“I’m not quite following that. Could you explain?”
“Yesterday I stopped here to see if Louise had heard Nola’s barking. And to apologize if she had. In case it woke her up.” Mira twisted her fingers together. “She said she hadn’t heard Nola but made this comment about men coming and going from my place. At all hours. I thought she meant the police and—”
“The times you’ve called Spencer?”
“Detective Malone, yes. And Connor had been by, visiting. So I didn’t ask her to explain. She was kind of prickly.”
“I understand,” Stacy said. “When I talked to you this morning, you said you were starting to think your husband might be alive. Why’s that, Mira?”
Detective Malone came up beside them but didn’t say anything. Mira glanced at him, then back at Stacy. “He called me. Last night. It was his voice. He said he was going to be home soon.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No. I … I dropped the phone and the call killed.”
“What did you do then?”
“I didn’t know what to do. He didn’t call back and I was sort of … freaking out. So I went to a friend’s. I slept there.”
Stacy cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t wait at your house for him, just in case?”
“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Mira brought a hand to her forehead. “My therapist called—”
“What’s his name?”
“Her. Dr. Adele Jasper. She called right after Jeff did. But on my landline.”
“Did you tell her what happened?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Why not?”
Mira looked away, feeling like a complete fool. “I just … couldn’t. I knew what she’d think.”
“And what’s that?”
“That I was cracking up.” Mira pressed her lips together, using the moment to try to compose herself. “I needed to talk to somebody. Somebody who I thought would believe me. So I went to Deni’s. She convinced me to stay the night. I had my cell phone. And if it had really been Jeff, wouldn’t he call me again?”
“That makes good sense,” Stacy said. “Why didn’t you call him back?”
“I couldn’t. It was an unlisted number. My cell wouldn’t dial it back.”
“So this morning, what happened before you stopped and talked to me?”
“I came home really early. Because of Nola and because … I wondered if he would be there.”
“But he wasn’t.”
She shook her head. “But it looked like he had been. His pillow, there was an indentation … like his head had been on it. And it … smelled like him.”
She looked down at her clasped hands, then back up at the two detectives. “That’s why I came over here. That and the porch light. I remembered what Louise had said, about men at my place.” Connor’s image filled her head. The memory of his mouth against hers, the way it had made her feel. She wasn’t about to share that with them. “She knew Jeff; if he was alive she would have recognized him. And I figured she could describe who she had seen and when.”
“Good thinking. And the porch light?”
“It was on during the day. Louise never did that. Once she lectured Jeff and me about how much electricity we used.”
Mira saw Stacy’s lips twitch slightly. “So why did you let yourself into her house?”
“I shouldn’t have. I knocked and called out. Front and back, then just checked the knob. The door was open so I went in.” Her voice shook. “I wish I hadn’t. She looked … it was so horrible. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get it out of my head.”
“It’ll get better, Mira, I promise.” Stacy squeezed her hands. “When’s the last time you saw your neighbor alive?”
“Let me think, so much has happened.” She brought her fingers to her temples. “I talked to her Tuesday afternoon, that’s when she made that comment about people coming and going.”
“And that was the last time?”
“Yes. No, wait. That night. About nine o’clock, when I got back home. After being questioned by you guys.”
“You’re certain it was her?”
She thought a moment, then nodded. “Positive. Her porch light snapped on, then she appeared at her side window. I waved, though she didn’t wave back.”
“Thank you.” Stacy jerked her thumb toward Spencer. “He and I need to talk. Stay put, okay? I’ll be back.”
As the two started off, the improbability of the situation occurred to Mira. “Stacy?”
The woman looked over her shoulder at her. “Yes?”
“Where did you … I mean, how did you happen to be here, just now when I needed you?”
She smiled. “I wondered when you’d ask. Spencer tasked me with keeping an eye on you. It worked out pretty well for both of us, didn’t it?”
Mira drew her eyebrows together. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Kept me from another day of daytime TV and gave you someone to back up your version of events.”
Stacy had been following her. Malone had set that up. It was why he had let her go.
She had been so easily duped by his manufactured concern. But as Stacy had pointed out, it seemed to have worked in her favor.
Where would she be right now without Stacy as a witness?
Mira shuddered and turned toward the house’s big front window. A reflection in the glass caught her eyes. A Jaguar. Silver-blue. Easing past.
Dr. Jasper.
The street was choked with police and emergency vehicles, providing only a single lane for moving traffic. She didn’t see the Jag, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, halted beside the crime-scene van or ambulance.
She jogged down the steps and traversed the lawn to the street. She looked up, then down. No silver-blue Jag. If it had been there, it was gone now.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Wednesday, August 17
1:40
P.M.
Through the doorway, Malone caught sight of Bayle striding toward the house. She looked pissed. She signed in then jogged up the porch steps.
A moment later she stood before him, all but breathing fire. She nodded at Stacy, then turned to him. “A word, Malone. In private.”
They found a quiet corner and Bayle rounded on him. “How did you get here so much faster than I did?”
“I made all the lights?”
“More like Stacy called you first. And then you called me when you were en route?”
“Pretty much.”
His honesty seemed to momentarily throw her. “What’s Stacy doing here, anyway?”
“I told you I put a tail on Gallier. You never asked who.”
“Son of a bitch, Malone.” She lowered her voice. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“No game. You got a problem with Stacy now?”
She flushed. “Don’t make me the bad guy here. I’ve got no problem with Stacy. My problem’s with you.”
“Welcome to the frickin’ club. Look, it made sense. We didn’t have to pull anybody off another detail, she’s a damn good cop—one, by the way, who knows Gallier. Plus, I trust her completely.”
“To put your interests first.”