Marilyn Pappano - Bayou Hero

Her breath caught in her chest. The form was thin, tiny, the pink a robe, one slipper to match, mussed white hair. The body lay mostly on a rug at the foot of the stairs, but the pale, frail hands were on the polished floor, fingers spread wide, the ruby ring catching a ray of light.

“Aw, Miss Viola,” she whispered. “Damn...”

Turning her back on the window and retreating a few steps, she called Jimmy, then her supervisor. Maybe they would be lucky, and Miss Viola’s death would be accidental. The old lady was eighty-one. Maybe she’d fallen, her heart had stopped or she’d suffered a stroke. Maybe it had just been her time. Maybe it wasn’t related, just purely coincidental to the other murders.

But if they weren’t lucky, the body count had just reached five. Were there more deaths to come?

Letting the scene process in the back of her mind, Alia began a walk around the house, looking for any signs of forced entry. Locating an unsecured gate into the backyard, she went through it, cell phone in one hand, pistol in the other.

She’d expected small elaborate gardens, an enormous swimming pool, a cabana or two, sprawling seating for fifty, a tiled or wood platform to support Miss Viola’s favorite string quartet or for speech-giving at political fund-raisers.

The space was lovely, but beyond a modest red-brick patio down a few steps from the veranda, it was all garden: vegetable, shade, orchard and flowers. Standing on the patio, she identified tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, cantaloupes, herbs, lettuce, cabbage, an entire rainbow of bell peppers—enough produce to stock the market at the entrance to the Serenity neighborhood. What did an elderly woman want with such a large garden?

One of the doors leading into the house abruptly opened, and she spun around, bringing up her pistol.

“Don’t shoot.” Jimmy raised both hands in surrender. “I’ve got too much on my schedule to die today.”

Grimacing, she holstered the pistol. She’d made it through their marriage without killing him, though he’d dearly deserved it on multiple occasions. Why do it now?

He waited, holding the door open. As usual, he wore a white shirt, black trousers and black tie, and she knew from experience that the black suit coat was in the car.

“Do you still own five white shirts, five black suits and five black ties?” she asked as she passed him, entering the coolness of the mudroom.

“Do you remember the stuff you get into on this job? Besides, sometimes I’m tired—”

“Or hung over.”

“—and not really focused on choosing clothes. This way I always match.” His tone turned more serious as he closed and relocked the door. “You saw the old lady?”

“Only from outside.”

“Doesn’t look any better inside, but at least it’s not our concern.”

Alia followed him through a kitchen she would sell Jimmy’s soul for, then into the broad hallway. Yesterday she had stood right where Miss Viola’s head rested,

She look so small and helpless. It was hard to imagine that less than twenty-four hours ago, they’d sat in the library and talked, that Miss Viola had extended her hospitality for another visit. And now...

Giving herself a shake, Alia took in the scene, so very similar to the day before. No sign of a break-in or a struggle, no sign of a burglary that had gone wrong. Like the admiral, there were too many valuable items just the right size for slipping into a pocket or a bag, including the huge ruby ring on Miss Viola’s left hand.

Natural causes , she reminded herself. Not every death was a homicide, not all circumstances suspicious.

The coroner’s assistant glanced up from his position next to the body. “Time of death was between midnight and 3:00 a.m. Head trauma. Apparently, she tripped coming down the steps. Lost her shoe there—” he pointed to the missing slipper lying crookedly halfway up the stairs “—got tangled in her robe and took a tumble.”

...the interesting parts are upstairs, and I don’t go up there anymore. Broken hip. Last year. I haven’t been upstairs since.

“No,” Alia murmured, then repeated in a stronger voice, “No. She didn’t fall down the stairs.”

“Why do you say that?” Jimmy asked.

“She broke her hip last year. Her kids fixed her a suite on this floor, at the back of the house. She didn’t go upstairs.”

“Maybe she was home alone, needed something, thought one time wouldn’t hurt,” the coroner’s investigator suggested.

“No,” Alia repeated. “She would have waited. If it was important, she would have called someone. She’s got family and friends everywhere. And she never would have tried it in those slippy little shoes and a robe that’s just waiting to trip her.”

The men exchanged looks, then Jimmy asked the question that apparently they were all thinking. “Why would someone want to kill an eighty-year-old lady who lives in her house, grows her garden, goes to church and wouldn’t hurt a fly?”

“This particular eighty-one-year-old lady is related by marriage to the Jackson family. She knew all of Camilla’s and Jeremiah’s history. Miss Viola probably knew everyone in the neighborhood, city, parish and state who had a feud with the admiral, when and what about. I’m guessing she knew the secrets people wanted to stay buried.”

“Well, hell. So odds of this being coincidence...”

“I thought you don’t believe in coincidence.”

Scowling, he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t. I believe God’s got a wicked sense of humor and Karma’s a fire-breathing bitch.”

The men laughed. Alia patiently pointed out, “You’ve got to admit—you tested their patience.”

“Maybe. A little.” Turning back to the other investigators, he shrugged. “Let’s treat this like a crime scene until we find out cause of death for sure.”

Alia’s gaze went past him to the tall windows across the room that overlooked the driveway. The car parking next to hers was middle-of-the-road average, old enough to lay some claim on vintage and showing the scars and dings of a lot of miles. She’d ridden in it for a few minutes yesterday and had figured she would see it again. Just not here. Not now.

“Family,” she muttered to Jimmy as she headed out the door. She met Landry and Mary Ellen at the far end of the porch, only a few steps from his vehicle. “You can’t be here,” she said firmly, blocking their way, realizing she would have to break the news, wishing she’d sent Jimmy instead. She hadn’t had to make many death notifications, and she never knew what to say. Sweet-talker Jimmy always managed to find just the right words.

“B-but Miss Viola... All th-these police c-c-cars... What’s happened?” Mary Ellen didn’t look as if she’d rested last night. Her eyes were bloodshot, dark circles underneath them, and her chin was wobbling now. “Where is Miss Viola? Is she all right? We’ve got to see her. We’ve got to—Landry!”

There were no circles around his eyes, no sign that a single tear had fallen. He was dressed more formally today, in gray trousers and a blue button-down, with that same antique watch on his left wrist. A family heirloom, likely from the Landry side of the family. Had it come from the Jacksons, it would likely be buried in silt at the bottom of the Mississippi.

His mouth was hard, the look in his eyes even more so. “What happened?” His voice was low, soft as granite, devoid of emotion but, conversely, all the more touching for the lack of it.

“We don’t know yet. Miss Viola...” Alia looked away, noticing in some distant portion of her brain that the mother and child across the street had gone inside, then met Landry’s gaze. “She’s gone.”

She didn’t have to say more because a wail escaped Mary Ellen an instant before she swooned into her brother’s arms.