Линда Ла Плант: Cold Blood

I sincerely thank Suzanne Baboneau, Arabella Stein, Philippa McEwan, the real Lorraine Page whose name I borrowed, Susanna Porter and Harold Evans of Random House, Gill Coleridge, Esther Newberg, Peter Benedek, Hazel Orme. With special thanks to Alice Asquith, researcher at La Plante Productions, and Vaughan Kinghan, editor at La Plante Productions. To everyone at the Pasadena Police Station and Sheriff’s Office, thank you for your time and expertise.

With thanks for their contribution to: Eliot Hoffman, Arthur Q. Davis, Clara Earthly, Geoffrey Smith, Paul Lovell, Priestess Miriam Chawani, Brandi Kelly, The Voodoo Museum, Yosha Goldstein, Centre for New American Media, Sergeant Barry Fletcher and Lt. Sam Fredella of the New Orleans Police Department, John Gagliano, New Orleans Coroner’s office, Dr Munroe Samuels, Tyler Bridges, Arthur Hardy, Mardi Gras Guide, Luke Delpip, Zulu Social Aid and Pleasure Club, Warren Green, NOMTOC krewe, Ed Renwick, Institute of Politics, New Orleans, John Maloney, Lakefront Airport, Dr Ragas, University of New Orleans, Kim Brown, Housing Authority of New Orleans, Kara Kebodeaux, New Orleans Chamber of Commerce, Wayne Everard, New Orleans Public Library, Jerry Romig, University City Hospital, Rodney and Frances Smith, Soniat House Hotel, Norman and Sandra Kng, Betty Baggert, Longue Vue House, Wade Henderson, 6 WDSU Television, Courtney Marsiglia, WVUE TV Channel 8, Alcoholics Anonymous, L.A. County Coroner’s office and the Times-Picayune.

But above all my thanks to a very admirable lady who brought me the story of her life.

Mojo is an African word denoting a fetish or sacred object, which can be used either for good or for evil. Gris-gris, meaning ‘grey grey’ in French, is the name given in New Orleans to the combination of ‘black’ and ‘white’ mojos made by a voodoo practitioner to achieve his or her ends — to safeguard the life of a person to whom the charm is given, protect against disease, and ward off the evil wishes of enemies to avoid bad luck in love and life. A personal gris-gris must be kept secret, and will lose its power if seen or touched by anyone other than the owner. For that reason, gris-gris are usually worn close to the body, on the right side by men, on the left by women.

Anna Louise Caley remained beneath the shower for a full half-hour, scrubbing herself clean, making sure every inch of her perfect body was cleansed. She could blank what she had done from her mind — that was easy — but it was the abuse she inflicted on her body that worried her, and she examined herself with care, pleased to see that there was no bruise or other mark to show what she had done the night before.

With just a soft white towel swathed around her, she re-examined herself, checking and patting her flesh until she was satisfied, then oiled and powdered her body and got dressed. White tennis socks, white cotton panties, white tennis dress and, lastly, pristine white tennis shoes. She laced them up, then chose one of a row of professional-standard racquets and unzipped the cover, tapping the taut strings with the flat of her hand before she slipped the cover back on. She checked her hair, putting on a white stretch head-band to keep her long blonde hair back from her face.

Anna Louise left nothing out of place in her room, placing the towel she had used in the laundry basket along with the previous night’s soiled clothes. She liked the fact that she was not like a normal teenager, prided herself on being meticulously neat, and she slowly appraised her immaculate room before she headed for the tennis court. She passed through the kitchen, still empty at 6.30 in the morning, before any of the domestic staff had begun to prepare breakfast, and went outside, where a gardener was already turning on the sprinklers and sweeping up any dead leaf that might have fallen during the night. He did not look up, however, as Anna Louise headed for the changing room where the tennis balls were kept, picked up a large basket of them, then made her way to the court. First she examined the net, making sure it was precisely the correct height, then fed the balls into an automatic delivery machine and set the dial for speed and direction. She carefully removed her racquet from its cover and switched on the ball machine, ready to begin to play against it — against herself. She stood on the service line, her weight thrown on to the balls of her feet, poised and ready for the first ball to shoot out, then began to practise her double-handed backhand. She was a precise player, fast, meticulous and very powerful, and she slammed ball after ball up the court until she was sweating with exertion, each stroke accompanied by a low grunt of satisfaction.

Her concentration lapsed for a moment and she missed the next ball, which struck her hard in the chest. Someone was laughing, and she recognized both the laugh and the accompanying soft, low giggle.

The balls continued to pop out of the machine, but Anna Louise ignored them now and walked off the court towards the summer-house, through the shrubbery, where she knew her approach could be neither seen nor heard.

Some time later, the machine fired out its last few balls, but now Anna Louise was slashing furiously at them, sending them crashing around the court as Tilda Brown, her closest friend, opened the court gate. Tilda was as blonde and as pretty as Anna Louise and dressed in a similar white tennis dress, but Anna Louise didn’t stop playing even for a moment to acknowledge her.

‘Hi, Anna!’ Tilda called. ‘Sorry I’m late, I’ve got a terrible headache. Maybe I won’t play this morning, I feel real bad,’ she continued, pulling a face.

Anna Louise made no reply, but switched off the machine and picked up the basket to begin collecting the stray balls. Tilda, still complaining of a headache, balanced some balls on her racquet and carried them across to the basket to tip them inside.

‘Did you hear what I said? I don’t feel like playing.’

Anna Louise smiled.

‘Ahh, but I’ve been waiting for you. I want to show you my backhand, it’s really progressed.’

‘It was always good,’ Tilda replied.

‘Yes, but now it’s better,’ Anna Louise said nonchalantly.

‘Maybe later!’ Tilda carried the basket over and tipped the balls into the machine. ‘I’ll refill it for you.’

Anna Louise stood on the service line, bouncing a ball up and down on her racquet, then suddenly took aim. The ball slammed into Tilda’s back, making her turn round, gasping. The blow had hurt so much she could hardly speak, and the next ball hit her so hard in the stomach that she staggered backwards, winded.

‘Stop it, Anna, STOP IT, THAT HURT... YOU HURT ME.’

Anna Louise moved closer. ‘Get Polar to kiss it better...’

Tilda was scared and tearful; her belly ached, while her back felt as if it was burning, and Anna Louise was bouncing another ball, ready to aim at her again. Tilda ducked for cover as the third ball came towards her.

‘What are you doing? STOP IT!’ she screamed.

Anna Louise grinned as she picked up a fourth ball.

‘You can’t get away from me, Tilda Brown.’ She was now throwing the ball up in the air as if to serve. Tilda moved further back and bumped into the ball machine, hitting the switch with her arm. The machine began to pump the balls more rapidly towards Anna Louise, who laughed as she swung her racquet, forehand and backhand in perfect unison, every ball viciously directed at the cowering Tilda, who screamed, running this way and that to avoid the swift hail of tennis balls, until she squatted sobbing behind the net.