Marilyn Pappano - Detective Defender

It had taken Martine five years just to get her shop’s very simple website online.

After a couple of rings, her mother’s husky voice greeted her. “Ha! When I got up this morning, I crossed my fingers and turned in a circle three times, chanting your name, and here you are!”

“You know, you could have picked up your phone and called me without risking getting dizzy and falling.”

“I can’t fall. I’m sixty-five years old. It could be dangerous.”

“Just because you say you can’t doesn’t mean it can’t happen anyway.” Would that it were true. Martine would be spinning in circles and chanting her heart’s desires until she passed out. Paulina can’t be dead. Callie can’t be dead. Tallie and Robin and I can’t be in danger. I can’t have to see Detective DiBiase one more time.

“In my world, it does.” Bette said something in an aside, and Martine heard a British-sounding, Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am. “Where are you?” she asked.

“Home. Where are you?”

“London. That was Chelsea. She’s my translator on this trip.”

“They speak English in London, Mom.”

“Yes, but apparently they don’t think I do. It was impossible to get anything done with them constantly asking me to repeat myself.”

“Because they love your accent.” Her mother sounded as if she’d stepped straight out of Southern belle charm school, her words all rounded and sweet and enchanting, gliding slowly one into the next and putting a person in mind of sultry afternoons on a veranda, sipping mint juleps and saying y’all a lot.

DiBiase’s accent was pretty much the male version of Bette’s.

Martine scowled hard until the thought disappeared from her mind.

“What’s going on with you, Tine? You rarely call me in the middle of your workday.”

Too late, of course, Martine rethought the call. Did she really want to deliver sad news to her mother while she was on a business trip? Bette had adored her daughter’s friends, and they’d felt the same about her.

But her mom was always on a trip. She could handle news, and she would want to know.

“You remember Paulina? And Callie?”

Bette snickered. “That’s like asking if I remember your father. Those girls practically lived in our house. I never really knew what happened between you all, but you know, it was like losing part of the family. One day I had all five of you underfoot, and the next you were all gone. Moved on. I knew it was inevitable, of course, but I wasn’t prepared for it. Then your father left, and I...”

Martine remembered her mother’s shock as well as her own when Mark Broussard had packed his bags and moved into his fishing cabin ten miles outside town. He hadn’t had an affair. He hadn’t wanted a divorce. He’d sworn he was happy and loved Bette and Martine as much as ever. He’d just needed some time alone.

Bette had given him time—six months, a year, two, her life effectively put on hold—and then she’d given him an ultimatum: life together or divorce. He’d refused to choose, so she had.

Twenty-plus years he’d lived in that cabin, working when he had to, fishing when he could, communing with nature and his own spirit and still insisting that he loved Bette and Martine as much as ever. It was strange, but Martine believed he was genuinely happy.

Bette’s sigh was long and blue, then her voice brightened. “Have you heard from the girls? Is that why they’re on your mind after all this time?”

“Sort of. I saw Paulina for a few minutes yesterday. She was, uh...” Martine had to stop, had to close her eyes to push back the tears that threatened. When she thought it safe to continue, her words wobbled with emotion. “She was murdered last night, Mom.”

For an instant, the silence on the line was thick, then her mother’s own voice wobbled. “Oh, honey... Good Lord, how awful. Her poor parents... Was it a mugging or a robbery or what?”

Her fingers aching, Martine switched her phone to the other hand. “I don’t know. Just...her body was found this morning, and Jack is assigned to the case.”

“Well, it’s good to know New Orleans has their finest on the case. Still...so sad. Heavens, I can’t imagine what Paulina’s parents are feeling right now.”

“Not just Paulina’s parents. It’s weird, Mom, but she told me Callie had been murdered a few months ago.”

That bombshell rendered Bette speechless. Martine worked her boots off, then drew her feet onto the chair and gazed forlornly out the window. The tiny courtyard below that never failed to make her smile failed now. The fountain was turned off, the bright-colored cushions for the chairs stored downstairs. The plants drooped as if they might collapse under one more drop of rain, and everything looked sallow and depressed, in need of a dose of brilliant sunshine.

“Poor Callie,” her mother said at last. “And poor Paulina. What a sad, sad coincidence.”

A lot of people didn’t believe in coincidence. They insisted there was a great plan, that everything happened as it must. Her mom wasn’t among them. She thought coincidence was a lovely wrinkle that delighted her more often than not.

Could it be coincidence? Martine really wanted to believe it. Life was dangerous. Some people were willing to kill for a pair of shoes, a handful of change or because they felt slighted. It could be just really bad luck that first Callie, then her old friend Paulina had become victims. Just because their lives had been connected didn’t mean that their deaths were.

But she couldn’t quite convince herself of that.

“Mom, I wanted to get in touch with Tallie and Robin to let them know about Paulina, but I don’t have any idea where they are. Do you have phone numbers or addresses for their parents?”

“I’m not sure, but I do know their mothers follow me on Facebook. I’ll look them up and email their info to you right away, okay?” There was a brief pause with the faint sound of typing in the background. “And Tine? Be careful, honey. It would rip my heart right out of my chest if anything happened to you. I love you more than my life.”

Martine swallowed hard. “I love you, too, Mama.”

After disconnecting the call, she gazed down at the courtyard again. The barren branches of the crape myrtles faded into the brick wall behind them. The fog lifted here, swirled there, but thanks to the protection of four walls, it mostly just hovered.

It made Martine feel cold and damp and heavy.

Her gaze went distant as her mind shifted back to the conversation. She’d never imagined she would be contacting Paulina’s or Callie’s parents. Never imagined she would be offering condolences on their daughters’ deaths. Never imagined two of her four former best friends would be murdered. Never imagined for even an instant that Tallie’s or Robin’s or her own life might be in danger.

Movement in the courtyard caught her attention, drawing her to her feet and closer to the window. Nothing was there, just the fog bumping into the walls that constricted it, then slowly settling back into its lazy ramble. Still, a shiver passed through her, leaving her ice cold as she sank back into the chair.

Danger or coincidence: Did it matter? Either way, it didn’t change what she had to do.

Resolutely she typed a message on her phone, drew a deep breath and hit Send.

Now all she could do was wait.

* * *

Jimmy had a hundred favorite hangouts in New Orleans. Today it was a bar on Bourbon Street, relatively small, with wood floors, tables closely spaced and tall French doors usually open to the sounds, sights and smells of the Quarter. Today the cold kept all but the main entry closed, but he didn’t mind. There was blues on the sound system, he had takeout from his favorite Cajun restaurant and his ex-wife was seated across from him.