Линда Ла Плант: Cold Blood

Anna Louise broke off a large piece of muffin and stuffed it into her mouth. ‘You don’t believe in all that mumbo-jumbo, do you?’

She took a gulp of milk, swallowing it the wrong way, and started coughing and spluttering as the muffin lodged in the back of her throat. She gasped, her eyes watering and her cheeks turning bright red. She couldn’t breathe — it felt as if she was being choked, and Berenice had to hit her hard in the middle of her back as she retched and clung on to the edge of the table before at last she coughed the mouthful of food up, heaving for breath.

The housekeeper fetched some paper kitchen towel to wipe up the mess.

‘You see, what did I say about that snake? It just come and hissed an’ spat right now, almost chokin’ you, so you hear me right and don’t go meddlin’.’ But when she turned back Anna Louise was gone, so she went out into the hall, catching sight of the girl as she ran helter-skelter up the stairs.

‘Are you all right, Miss Anna Louise?’

Anna Louise looked down and then leaned over the bannister rail, whispering, ‘It was in my mama’s room. It wasn’t Tilda that saw it but me!’

She laughed suddenly and continued running up the stairs, not seeing the fear on Berenice’s face as she slipped her hand inside her uniform dress to feel for her own gris-gris. It was safely tucked into her underslip, on her left-hand side, beneath her heart.

Berenice returned to the kitchen: that silly spoilt child had no notion of what went on in the house, and she hoped to God she never would. She cleaned up the mess from the table, and finished putting the dishes away, then tipped all the freshly made blueberry muffins into the trash. She would make a fresh batch, just in case a drop of the snake’s venom that had hissed from Anna Louise Caley had touched them: there were some chances that just weren’t worth taking.

The following afternoon, accompanied by her parents, Anna Louise flew from Los Angeles to New Orleans. It was 15 February, and on 16 February, Anna Louise was officially reported as missing. Police in both Los Angeles and New Orleans attempted to trace her, and when they failed to do so, her parents brought in private investigators.

The weeks became months — no body and no ransom note were ever discovered, and even with top investigation agencies on the case, no clue as to the whereabouts of the missing girl, or her body, ever came to light. After nine months the disappearance of Anna Louise Caley was no longer news, and she had to all intents and purposes become just another statistic, another photograph on the missing persons files.

Eleven months passed, and with no new information, Anna Louise’s distraught parents faced the possibility that she might have been murdered. By this time, more than fifteen investigation agencies had been involved with the case, the Mississippi had been dragged and helicopters had searched the swamplands of Louisiana. Agnews Investigations, along with three other less well-known agencies, were still retained on the enquiry: the Caleys had paid out millions of dollars but the expenditure had yielded no motive, no suspect, no result. All the grieving parents were left with was an aching period of waiting, while they longed for a sign that their beautiful Anna Louise was still alive.

All the PI agencies involved had made a lot of money, and some had even traded information with one another, but the Anna Louise Caley bonanza was coming to an end. Pickings were getting slim for private investigators — it was a tough business in which contacts and recommendations by word of mouth were a necessity, as Page Investigations, a small PI company, had found out the hard way. Even getting a foothold on the lowest rung of such a competitive ladder had proved impossible, and the attempt had been financially crippling for Lorraine Page: now, her agency was virtually bankrupt.

Even though she was a former police lieutenant, her own case history as an alcoholic and an officer who had shot dead an unarmed boy while drunk on duty meant that instead of being welcomed into the PI fraternity, she was being frozen out — just as she had been kicked out of the LAPD. The hardest part was explaining to Rosie, the assistant whom Lorraine jokingly called her partner, and who was also a recovering alcoholic, that they were going under. Dear Rosie, who still hoped, Rosie who still maintained that business would pick up — but there had never been any business. There was nothing to pick up from: it had all been a gamble, a dream even, but now it was over.

Lorraine had the phone cupped in her hand, half-listening to the call, half-wondering whether tonight would be the night she would tell Rosie — she knew she would have to do it soon. She listened, interjecting twice how sorry she was as the man’s deep rumbling voice made incoherent references to his wife’s passing.

Rosie, a plump woman with a kind, open face, was reading her star signs, a cup of coffee and two orange chocolate cup cakes beside her. She had flicked a glance at Lorraine when the phone had jangled through the silent office and sighed when she had heard Lorraine’s over-cheerful ‘Hi, Bill, how ya doing?’

Rosie had been trying a new diet: proteins one meal, carbohydrates the next, with fruit forty minutes either before or after each meal, and no fats or fried food. She had stuck to it for a month and felt better for losing a few pounds, but today she was indulging in a binge of chocolate cup cakes, hating herself with each bite. Still, it was just one of those days — she couldn’t face another chicken breast without crisp golden skin or French fries, or another salad without dressing, and a whole month with no fresh crusty bread spread thickly with peanut butter had been excruciating.

At last Lorraine was able to replace the receiver. ‘That was Bill Rooney,’ she murmured, lighting a cigarette. ‘His wife died.’

‘I didn’t know he had a wife,’ Rosie said, lowering her magazine.

‘I don’t think he did,’ Lorraine said as she counted the butt-ends in her ashtray. She sighed and leaned back in her chair. By turning her head a fraction she could just make out the cheap sign printed in fake gold leaf on the outer office door — ‘Page Investigations Agency’. There was a stack of calling cards on her desk with the same inscription. It was a farce.

‘Well, the end of yet another over-active sleuthing day.’ Rosie chomped on her cup cake, staring at the free digital alarm clock she got from ordering some non-stick pans. It was almost six. Unaware of the smear of chocolate over her right cheek, she looked over at Lorraine, watching her as she inhaled deeply on her thirtieth or so cigarette of the day. Her eyes were staring vacantly across the small white painted office. Rosie hated it when she did those vacant stares. Sometimes her silences could last over an hour and Rosie could never tell what her partner was thinking. She hoped this was not going to turn into one of Lorraine’s moods. ‘You should cut down,’ she said with her mouth full.

‘So should you,’ Lorraine retorted, looking at the trash can filled with empty silver foil cup cake moulds.

‘I don’t smoke, so it’s expected to crave sugar. That’s half of what alcoholism is about too, you know, sugar craving.’

Lorraine pushed her second-hand typist’s chair back from her empty desk. ‘Is it? Well, well, isn’t that interesting. And just what are hamburgers and fries, are they a craving too?’

‘For chrissakes, don’t start having a go at me! You and your brown rice and your vitamins make me wanna throw up.’

‘Might do you some good!’

Rosie now pushed her large ass back in her catalogue sale of the month office chair. ‘Right, that is it.’

‘Yep, I guess it is, Rosie.’