Joanna Wayne - Stranger, Seducer, Protector

Someone had gotten away with murder and his father was paying for the crime. He had a good idea who that someone was.

But he needed more than supposition. He needed proof. That’s where Jacinth came in.

RON GREENE WOULD NEVER be cast as the lead on a TV detective show. His face was pocked and treaded, likely the result of teenage acne gone mad and apparently untreated. His scowl was perpetual, the lines in his brow permanent, the wrinkles deeply furrowed though he was probably no more than mid-fifties.

But he definitely had that detective air about him, authoritative and intimidating. Even Sin had gone into hiding when he showed up.

That was two hours ago. Now the CSU was done and gone, leaving Ron Greene time to focus all his attention on Jacinth.

Just looking into his piercing eyes inspired guilt and gave her a compelling desire to confess something. The worst offense she could think of was running a yellow light on her way to work last Tuesday. She doubted the detective would be impressed.

She led him to the kitchen for the interrogation, or chat as he referred to it. The parlor with its uncomfortable antique seating seemed a poor fit for his six-foot-plus frame. The den seemed too cozy.

He turned down her offer of coffee and asked for water as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “Mind if I tape our conversation?” he asked.

“No, why would I?”

“No reason, but I’m required to ask.” He took a small recorder from his shirt pocket, set it on the table in front of him and pushed a button.

A green light flashed and suddenly she grew nervous, though she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if he could possibly consider her a suspect. Or could he?

Nonetheless, she was only telling the truth and that wouldn’t change. So why worry that it was being taped?

“Some of this is in the police report,” the detective said, “but I’ll have you restate it for my records.”

She nodded.

“Will you state your full name and age?”

“Jacinth Elizabeth Villaré. I’m twenty-four years old.”

“Single?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you lived at this address?”

“Eleven months.” She went over the details of the inheritance once again—explaining how she and Caitlyn had come down to New Orleans from Ohio with the intention of picking up the keys from the estate attorney and listing the house with a real estate company.

“What made you decide to stay?” Greene asked.

Admitting they’d fallen in love with the house and felt it was calling to them sounded far too corny to share with the blunt detective. “We found the city intriguing and Tulane University offered the graduate program I was looking for.”

“What program would that be?”

“American Cultural History.”

“It says in the police report that you work at Tulane.”

“I have a teaching assistantship while I complete my doctorate. I don’t see how these questions are going to help you find out what happened to the woman who lost her head.”

“I’m just trying to get a timeline here. What I’m going to need from you are the names of anyone who had access to the house after it was deeded to you. Construction workers, friends, cleaning staff, anyone who had a key or had one in his possession long enough to have one made.”

“I’ll have to give that some thought.” Unfortunately, there had been a constant stream of workers in those first few weeks after she and Caitlyn had moved in.

“I’d like to have the list by tonight. You can always add names later as you think of them. I’ll give you my card and you can fax the names to me.”

“Okay.”

“And I’m going to need as much information as I can get on your late grandmother’s lifestyle. Names of her caretakers. Whether or not she had renters or frequent visitors. Names of her friends.”

“I won’t be much help to you there. I didn’t have a relationship with my grandmother. The last contact I had with her was when I was two years old.”

Detective Greene shot her a look of undisguised skepticism. “So how did you get in the will?”

“My best guess is that my sister and I are the only living relatives she had left. I can’t swear to that, though.”

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and raked his fingers through his thinning hair. “Your knowing nothing about the house before you moved in will complicate the investigation,” he said, his expression suggesting she’d let him down.

“What about letters, diaries, old photos? Your grandmother must have left some of those around the house.”

“Not that we’ve located.”

“See what you can find.”

“I’ve already searched the closets and the attic and every place else she might have kept personal information. I didn’t find anything except some old receipts and Post-it notes she had stuck on half the surfaces in the house.”

Jacinth smiled as she remembered her grandmother’s haphazard method of organizing. “They were mostly reminders of appointments and to take her meds.”

“What kind of appointments?”

“Doctors. Hair. Nails. Gladys Findley said she was very concerned about her appearance right up until the end.”

“Who’s Gladys Findley?”

“My next-door neighbor.” She nodded toward the window with a view of the Findley house.

“Do you still have the notes?”

“No. They didn’t seem important.” Jacinth rearranged herself in the chair and met the detective’s steely gaze. She had a few questions of her own and this seemed as good a time as any to ask them. “Do you have a definitive answer for how long the victim had been dead?”

“Not yet.”

“An ID?”

“No. She’s still labeled the Jane Doe head.”

“What about the search you just made of my bathroom?”

“What about it?”

“Did you find any more skeletal remains?”

“This is a police matter now. I’m not at liberty to discuss specifics of the evidence.”

“It’s my house. I have a right to know if there are bodies inside my walls.”

“As far as I can tell, you’re clear of corpses.”

She sighed, relieved. “Does that mean I can start repairing the room?”

“I’d hold off on structural repairs in case we need to investigate further. You could go ahead and have the plumbing checked out and also the roof. You seem to have a leak somewhere. The walls are wet from the inside out.”

“I will.” As soon as she could afford it. That might not be anytime soon.

“Has anything like this ever happened before?” she asked.

“Women decapitated?”

“No, bodies or body parts found inside houses in this area?”

“Not recently. Until I get a complete autopsy report, we don’t even know if the victim was alive or dead when the decapitation took place. It could be a sick prank, teenagers stealing bodies from the cemetery and conducting their own science experiments.”

“The neighbors haven’t mentioned any teenagers living in this house.”

“No, but they could have had access to it during the time it was empty.”

The detective turned off his recorder and returned it to his pocket as he stretched to a standing position. “You can relax,” the detective said, offering his first attempt at empathy. “I don’t think you’re in any danger, Ms. Villaré. But use caution. Don’t open your door to strangers or get involved with people you know nothing about. I would advise that even if we hadn’t found the partial remains of Jane Doe. You can’t be too careful these days.”

She preached that same thing herself and yet she’d opened her door to Nick last night. Thankfully, he’d just been a helpful neighbor, one she’d likely never see again.