Dead Man Talking

  Chapter 28

  The city jail was silent, dark, only a single light glowing. I didn’t suppose they needed much security — the violent perps could be housed over at the newer county facility. The two major tourist attractions in Jefferson were the spring Mardi Gras Upriver Celebration and the Pilgrimage the first weekend in May. Mardi Gras Upriver weekend garners more than its share of arrests, with the people who can’t afford the Louisiana celebration making do with a local event. And trying to out-do the N’awlins folks with their revelry and alcohol overindulgence. Even the historical old jail fills to overflowing.

  Jack guided me down that dirt path and pulled out a set of keys. Door open, he flicked on the inside lights. As he walked over to one of the desks, I examined the surroundings closer than I’d had time to before. A photo of two officers showing off the results of a drug bust hung on the wall, bales of marijuana displayed in plastic-wrappings used in a misguided attempt to fool the trained drug dogs. Beside it was an artist’s depiction of a drug raid, the agents protected by shields and helmets as they lined the front porch of a frame house and prepared to batter in the door. Maybe I was wrong about the need for security. Katy’s guards sounded better all the time.

  “You wouldn’t think there’d be such a large drug problem in these small towns,” I mused.

  Jack glanced up from pulling files out of a drawer. “The dealers think the same thing. But we’ve got well-trained officers schooled at state and national law enforcement seminars. They work with the federal marshals and Texas Rangers." He sighed and continued, “A lot of marijuana busts come from vehicles with South Texas plates. Women drivers, who the dealers haven’t figured out yet we’ll bust just as soon as a man, if we’ve got a reason to be suspicious. But . . ." He flicked his head, indicating the artist’s depiction. “The dealers who set up labs — coke and crack — figure they can hide the smell of their operation by using an isolated area. Mostly rental properties. Folks call the anonymous tip lines, though, neighbors, even folks just drivin’ through, who see somethin’ suspicious.”

  Jack motioned me to sit and took his seat in the bedraggled office chair behind the desk. He pushed a manila folder across, and I leafed through the photos. The first one was Katy’s pool, water pink-tinged against the blue bottom. I held my breath as I set it aside, hoping the next one wouldn’t show the body.

  “I’ve got the gruesome ones in another file, Chére,” Jack said softly. “But you wanted to know what was going on — what evidence we had.”

  I studied the next photo — the hilt of Grandpere Jean’s sword. The photo after that was a blowup of an area with the spot of dried blood. Next came the tire track, half camouflaged by the oyster shells in the driveway, half-visible in the mud at the edge of the drive. I don’t know that much about tires, but it was wide, the tread grooves deeply cut, not worn. My Jeep’s tires were wider and higher than passenger car tires, and this looked more like them.

  The next photo was taken further back and showed a four-foot area around the tire track, grass, and part of the oyster-shell drive. Then a picture of the track filled with casting plaster and another of the plaster after it had been removed. I picked up the one of the track and the area around it again. But it still looked the same — I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, except that a couple of the larger oyster shells looked freshly disturbed. Dirt dulled the white from where they’d been turned out of their nests.

  There were pictures of the pool area, some with a measuring tape laid out to indicate distances that meant something to the crime investigators. Next came the Great Room and the front and rear doors of the manor house. I assumed the door pictures were taken to show there wasn’t any evidence of tampering.

  “What about the windows?” I asked Jack.

  “We’ve got photos of them, too. Nothing. No pry marks, no glass cracked.”

  I dug through the pictures to the one of Grandpere Jean’s sword. “Fingerprints?”

  “Only Katy’s.”

  “Which is to be expected,” I insisted.

  “Not necessarily.”

  “You care to explain that?”

  “Katy has a lot of visitors. Lots of interesting stuff in her house. Makes sense she’d let her guests look at or examine the sword. But everything was wiped off both the blade and handle.”

  “Except Katy’s prints and blood.”

  “Yeah. We sprayed the blade with Luminol. The perp washed it in the pool, but the spray brought out blood traces.”

  “Katy handled the sword and pricked her finger before Bucky was killed. Whoever the real killer is probably wore gloves!”

  “If you believe Katy’s story,” Jack agreed. “And there’s the lack of footprints. It rained that night, but earlier. Whoever was in that truck would’ve left prints...unless he never got out.”

  I looked at the tire print photos. “I’m a writer, Jack. I fit the clues in around my murder while I write, not vice versa.”

  Jack pointed to the edge of the tire-cast plaster. “It’s not noticeable to the untrained eye, but this track shows both the forward movement of the tire — when it stopped — and the backward movement — when it pulled out. A pickup tire. The truck backed up, but the wheel was turned just enough to tell us that the driver backed out onto the driveway, then on through the gate. Instead of going on up the driveway and turning around.”

  “He didn’t want to be noticed. He parked far enough away from the house to stay hidden. Maybe it was someone just passing by. They took a wrong turn, realized it, so they backed out." I tossed the photo down, recalling the scene in the bar. “The answering machine tapes! Jack, that one voice is Tildy’s!”

  “How do you know?”

  “Didn’t you hear her when she screamed ‘payback’s hell?’ It’s the same voice, nearly the same words.”

  “Didn’t dawn on me. I was too busy trying to keep someone from getting slashed. Why didn’t you mention it then?”

  “Would that have been enough for you to arrest her?”

  “Probably not,” he conceded. “But we need to check her out." He dialed the phone and informed whoever answered to send an officer to the Holey Bucket and pick up Tildy.

  When he hung up, I said, “I talked to Katy. I know that Bucky was in contact with her again. And why.”

  “He wanted to reform." Jack snorted in disbelief. “It was on the tapes. Knowin’ the swamp rat mentality, I’d be willin’ to bet he had somethin’ devious in mind to accomplish that, rather than just decidin’ to become a johnny-be-good citizen and let time take its course.”

  “The tapes didn’t tell you?" For some reason I shuffled through the photos until the tire track ones lay spread out in front of me.

  Jack let the silence linger, but I stubbornly didn’t offer anything further. Silences like that are a technique cops use. Suspects rush to fill the gap in conversation, sometimes babbling information they didn’t intend to reveal. But I had a huge measure of guilt on my shoulders already for handing over the tapes, not realizing I was implicating Katy even further. I wanted some time to reflect on what I was learning before I opened my mouth again.

  One reflection hit me just then. “Sue Ann!”

  Jack raised one eyebrow in question.

  “The fingerprints,” I insisted. “I’m sure lots of people did handle that sword. Katy’s extremely tidy and protective of her things, though. She wouldn’t care if people admired the sword, but she’d want to protect it from harm. Sweat from people’s hands. Either she’d clean it or have Sue Ann do it.”

  “That could explain it,” he agreed. He retrieved another file and shuffled through the papers until he found the one he wanted. “Traces of cleaner were found on the sword.”

  “See?" And I couldn’t help adding, “Men don’t think of stuff like that. Women do." My eyes were irresistibly drawn to that file, even knowing it probably contained the more grisly crime scene photos. Pictures of the body — but the next report was labeled “Toxicology.”
>
  “Is that the report on the poison used in the bread pudding?” I asked.

  “It was in the sugar canister. Y’all can have the rest of the groceries back, if you want.”

  I shuddered. “That won’t be necessary. I suppose anyone could have done that.”

  Jack leaned back. “I can’t keep them from arrestin’ Katy much longer, Chére.”

  “What?" I shoved my chair back, jumped to my feet and leaned across the desk. “She didn’t do it, Jack! You’re wrong! Wrong, wrong, wrong!”

  “It’s not totally for me to say, Chére,” Jack said softly. “I — ”

  “You’re in charge of the investigation! You — ”

  “Katy had means...the sword. Opportunity...she admits she was home when he was killed. Motive...according to the tapes, Bucky held something over her head.”

  I could only stare at him, stunned. “But...but . . .” I spluttered, then plunged on, “she...we...didn’t kill him when he blackmailed Katy before! Why would we this time?”

  “We?" Jack quirked a questioning eyebrow.

  Uh-oh. Damn, I wished I’d listened to those tapes entirely before I turned them over to Jack. Had Katy told me everything? But even if I’d heard something incriminating on the tapes, could I have withheld evidence like that?

  “Chére,” Jack prodded, “I need to know the whole story. The senator’s demandin’ an arrest, and every bit of evidence we’ve got points to Katy.”

  “There are plenty of other people around here who had reason to want Bucky dead,” I said staunchly. “People who are the type to kill another human being! Katy’s not!”

  “I’m doin’ the best I can to look at everybody. But I’m limited with the staff I have. And bein’ out of my home territory. And, to put it bluntly, it doesn’t look good...my connection to the family.”

  “They knew that when they asked you to take charge!”

  “Not all of it,” he denied. “I was convenient and had the best background and trainin’. But when you showed up on the scene, my ex, Katy’s cousin . . .”

  My heart plunged. I hadn’t even considered that my involvement would actually be detrimental to Katy.

  Jack rose and walked over to a coffeemaker in the far corner of the room. While I stood there biting my lip in frustration and anxiety, he filled the glass pot from a ten-gallon container of water, dumped it in the coffeemaker, and took a packet of pre-measured coffee from a cabinet. Within a few seconds, the inviting aroma of dripping coffee filled the small room.

  Back to me, Jack watched the stream of coffee. I wanted desperately to see his face — to try to imagine what he was thinking. His stance reminded me of the night we’d had our final discussion about our marriage. The cold knot in my stomach grew as I realized Jack was steeling himself to give me some more bad news, just as he had that night, when he openly admitted his misgivings about us continuing to live together.

  He didn’t have to, though. The bad news walked in right then.

  Smitty ushered a sobbing Katy through the door. She wore her gray all-weather coat, and rain misted it, which must have begun after Jack and I got to the jail. But it didn’t take long to see the real reason she wore the concealing coat. Her wrists were handcuffed, her shoulders slumped so the sleeves would hide the embarrassment.

  Smitty looked nearly as upset as Katy. His gaze shot to Jack. “I had orders. The chief and sheriff got a warrant from Judge Evans.”

  I started toward Katy, but Jack caught my arm. “Sorry, Chére. No contact right now.”

  “You think I’m gonna try to bust her out?” I snarled. He looked away, and I called to Katy, “Don’t you say a word, Sugar. I’ll call your lawyer!”

  “She called Jeeves from home before we left,” Smitty told me. “He’s down in South Texas, dove hunting.”

  “I’ll find someone else,” I fumed. “You’re not keeping Katy here in jail!”

  Katy stared at the floor, tears running down her face. I could imagine what was going through her mind in addition to the dismay and terror of being charged with a crime as horrible as murder. Phones were probably already ringing across the county with the story.

  “Book her,” Jack said in a quiet voice.

  Stunned, I watched Smitty lead Katy over to the other desk and remove a file of papers, then an ink pad and camera. He took a fingerprint card from the file, removed the handcuffs, and gently rolled each one of Katy’s fingers in the ink, pressed them to the paper. Katy shuddered inside her coat, eyes closed. He touched her shoulder and murmured, “Here, Miss Gueydon,” and handed her some tissues for her fingers.

  “They took our prints earlier,” I reminded Jack, but the anger had faded from my voice.

  “Have to repeat it,” he answered.

  Rummaging in the desk drawer again, Smitty came up with one of those numbered signs and, after checking a list on a clipboard, changed the numbers. He led Katy to a portion of the wall that was clear and hung the sign around her neck.

  “Jack,” I whimpered, but Katy stoically stood there as Smitty snapped one picture, then turned her sideways for another shot.

  “She’ll have to have a bail hearing,” Jack said. “I’m sorry. There’s nothin’ any of us can do right now.”

  Smitty glanced at me sympathetically. “I’ll finish the rest of this in the back.”

  He picked up the file and a pen from a holder on the desk, then urged Katy toward the huge steel door in the middle of the back wall and opened it. Katy shuffled on through, her sobs hanging in the air. I evaded Jack to see where Smitty was taking her and cringed in dismay. The space wasn’t much larger than the office. Straight ahead was a rusty shower stall, a dingy plastic curtain hanging from the rod. Four solid steel doors with tiny, barred windows about a foot square in each lined the sides of the narrow room. Smitty opened the first steel door on the left. Four bunk beds hung on the walls, two on each side, each with a dark-green, plastic-covered mattress. No linens, no pillows. In the rear of the cell was a commode and sink.

  “You can’t put her in there!” I spat. “It’s horrible! It doesn’t even look clean!”

  Jack tugged me out of the cell area, but I fought him hard enough to keep an eye on what was going on. Smitty helped Katy out of her coat. She wore a set of sweats — stylish, not like the well-washed ones I lounged around in. Smitty removed a couple rings and a diamond-studded wristwatch and said, “I need your shoes. I’ll get you a pair of slippers.”

  Katy’s tears had dried, but she still wouldn’t look at me. She sat on the bottom bunk on her left and toed off her tennis shoes. By now her face was white with strain, her eyes dead, as though she might be going catatonic.

  “Why does he want her shoes?” I snarled.

  “The laces,” he muttered. “It’s standard procedure.”

  Smitty started to close the cell door, Katy’s possessions in his hands. “Damn it,” I called. “It’s cold back there. At least give her her coat so she can stay warm!”

  Smitty looked at Jack, and he nodded. “Just until you get her some blankets.”

  But first Smitty removed the belt from the coat before he tried to hand it to Katy. She just sat there. With a sigh, Smitty tossed it on the bed beside her and shut the door.

  And locked it. The sound of the key turning sent more dread through me than the clunk of the cell door closing. My vivid writer’s imagination conjured up the horrible experience of being confined in such a devastating place for who knows how long. Maybe hardened criminals were used to something like that, but it could well send Katy into an emotional jungle of terror that it would take years of counseling to overcome. Tears gathered in my eyes, and I blinked furiously to clear my vision.

  “I’ll go back in and finish the paperwork as soon as I secure her things,” Smitty told Jack.

  “I’ll do that." Jack took Katy’s belonging from Smitty, and asked in a low voice, “You search her yet?”

  I clenched my fists, and actually lifted one half-way before I thought better of
cold-cocking a cop. Lucky for Smitty — and my freedom — Smitty replied, “Did that before I put her in the patrol car.”

  My spasm of relief faded in a heartbeat when Jack reminded him, “Procedure says a second search at the jail.”

  Smitty hung his head, glancing in trepidation at the steel door, and Jack patted his shoulder as he nudged me aside and closed the door separating the cells from the office area.

  “Damn it, someone’s going to pay for doing this to Katy!” I threatened. “I want to talk to her, Jack! At least for a few minutes.”

  “You’ll have to leave now,” he said, stuffing Katy’s belongings in another set of lockers beside the evidence cabinet. “We need to finish processing her.”

  I buried my face in my hands and let the tears flow. Jack guided me to the chair in front of the desk, then knelt in front of me and pulled my hands away. Clasping them in his, he stared at me. “You can’t help Katy if you fall apart.”

  “Didn’t you see her? My God, Jack! Treating her like...like a common criminal!”

  “She’s charged with murder, Alice. The best thing you can do is get her a lawyer. We’ll let her attorney in to talk to her all he wants.”

  “And we better get him quick,” a voice said from the corner of the room. “Some bloody bastard who’s not afraid to tell these incompetent bobbies that they’ve made the biggest mistake of their careers!”

  Jack’s jaw dropped as he stared at Sir Gary over by the other desk, a glare of outrage on the ghost’s face, hands propped on his hips. Jack slowly rose. I, on the other hand, surged across the room to take my stand with Sir Gary.

  “What happened at Esprit d’Chene?” I asked, forgetting that he wasn’t solid and reaching out to grab his arm. My hand went right through him, but I didn’t step back at the stab of cold. “Was it horrible for Katy?”

  “Bloody horrible,” he agreed, gaze fastened on Jack. “Worse than when we found that bastard in her pool. The bastard that someone else killed!”

  Jack’s hands dangled at his side. His fingers twitched as though he were wishing for his gun, which he hadn’t worn to the Holey Bucket. I smirked, noting his white face and trepidation.

  Smitty came out of the cell area and tossed his file on the desk as he glanced at Jack. He frowned and looked at me, and I waited to see if he could see Sir Gary. Evidently not, since he turned to Jack without any sort of alarm on his face or mention of a fourth person in the office.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Jack cleared his throat. “You gonna be stayin’ here the rest of the night?”

  “Yeah. Someone’s gotta — ”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a taxi in town,” I interrupted.

  “I’ll take you back." Jack shot Sir Gary another uneasy glance, then returned the photos on the desk to the file folder, the folder to a desk drawer. Lucky for his peace of mind, I suppose, my ride walked in the door just then.

  Granny preceded Twila, but the fury on their faces matched my feelings as they clomped in. Smitty stepped back, probably hoping Jack would handle the angry women.

  “I ain’t never seen such a bunch of damned Keystone Cops in all my life!” Granny fumed, thumping her walking stick for emphasis. “You let Katy out of here right now, or...or . . ." Sudden tears clouded her bright eyes, and she choked. She cast me a forlorn look, and Twila wrapped an arm around her tiny, shrunken figure and pulled her close.

  “Is there anything we can do to correct this stupid mistake?" Twila directed her question at Jack, a grim look on her face.

  “There has to be a hearing . . .” Jack began.

  “You told me there had to be a grand jury hearing before you arrested anyone, Jack!” I exploded. “So why wasn’t there?”

  Jack dropped his gaze to the floor, avoiding all our angry eyes. “It’s not always necessary,” he evaded.

  “Yeah,” I snarled. “Especially when you’ve got someone like Senator Wilson-Jones harping on a bunch of small-town cops to make an arrest! Even if it’s the wrong arrest!”

  “Where is that piece of self-important garbage?” Granny said with another emphatic thump, wiping her other hand across her eyes. “I’m gonna go jerk him right outta his nice warm bed and tell him what I think of him!”

  “He’s at the Jefferson Hotel,” Smitty said in awe, obviously believing Granny meant what she said. Jack shot him a warning glance, but he didn’t notice as he stared at Granny.

  “Let’s go, Twila." Granny tottered for the door. “It’s only a couple blocks.”

  “No,” Jack said in a resigned voice. “If y’all try something like that . . .”

  “We might end up sharing a cell with Katy, huh?” I finished when his words trailed off. “For disturbing the peace.”

  Granny, Twila, and I exchanged glances, and three heads bobbed in agreement. Sir Gary glided over to Twila and Granny, me following. We formed a rough and ready gang, and Smitty gazed in stunned amazement. Jack, however, quickly wiped a grin off his face.

  “Y’all can’t do Katy any good from inside the jail,” he reminded us. “You better go on back to Esprit d’Chene.”

  “My car’s on empty,” Twila said. “We drove the last couple of miles with the low-fuel dinging. I don’t suppose there’s a gas station open?”

  “Not this time of night,” Smitty said. “Be one open around six in the morning.”

  “I’ll take y’all home in Smitty’s patrol car,” Jack offered.

  I quirked an eyebrow. “All of us?”

  His gaze centered on Sir Gary. The ghost met Jack’s look directly, and he mused, “I have never ridden in one of those conveyances. I might enjoy the experience.”

  Smitty frowned and said, “There’s plenty of room for four people in the patrol car.”

  “I want to talk to Katy first,” I insisted. “Damn it, what can it hurt for her to know we’re going to be doing everything we can do to get her out of here as soon as possible. Don’t even open that darn cell door. Just let me speak to her through that teensy window.”

  Granny leaned on her walking stick and Twila crossed her arms over her chest. Sir Gary chuckled.

  “If he refuses your request,” the ghost said, “I’ll carry your messages." He glided across the floor, passing close to Smitty, who shivered and looked around as though checking for a draft. Half in, half out of the connecting door, Sir Gary fixed Jack with an amused look.

  If it hadn’t been so serious, I might have been amused, too. Jack swung his head back and forth from Gary to the rest of us, and Smitty followed Jack’s motion as though watching ping-pong. With a resigned sigh, Jack strode over to the door. Smitty headed for a cup of coffee.

  Jack drew his hand back instantly when Sir Gary stood firm instead of sliding on into the cell block. The two sized each other up like a pair of male dogs deciding if their territory was worth defending — and who had the upper hand...or paw.

  Smitty grew more and more confused. “It’s not locked, Detective.”

  Sir Gary flicked the index finger of his left hand and tumblers disengaged. Jack grabbed the handle just as the door creaked open. I’m not sure if Smitty realized it wasn’t Jack opening the door or not. Didn’t much care at that point. Sir Gary bowed and swept his arm wide, and Twila, Granny, and I marched through the door.

  “The window’s closed,” I prodded Jack while Twila and Granny took up waiting stances in front of the first cell...mistakenly the one on the right. When Jack held out his palm to Smitty, the cop shrugged and walked over to hand him a set of keys, one dangling from his fingers. Jack opened the cell window, and Granny and Twila moved over to wait their turn in the correct line. Sir Gary glided straight through the door, Jack moving back hastily to allow him unrestricted passage.

  I gazed inside. Katy was curled up on one of the hideous green-mattress bunks in a fetal position, coat bunched under her head for a pillow, blanket pulled up to her nose, eyes squinched closed. She shuddered miserably.

  “Katy. Sugar,” I c
alled. “Jack’s going to let us talk to you.”

  “Go away,” she replied wretchedly. “I don’t want anyone to see me like this.”

  “My Lady,” Sir Gary said, and Katy opened her eyes. “Do not turn away from those who seek to help you. We won’t let you down.”

  Jack peered through the window. There wasn’t a lot of room for two heads, and his breath feathered in my hair. He stifled a grunt as Katy jumped up and rushed toward Sir Gary...but of course, went right through him when she reached out for him to hold her.

  “I am sorry I am unable to comfort you,” Sir Gary said. “Never have I wished to be able to hold a lady more than right now.”

  Granny sighed, so she must have had her hearing aid turned on. “Ain’t no man never said nothin’ so sweet to me.”

  Katy’s lower lip pooched and she stared back and forth from Sir Gary to the window with abandoned puppy distress. Deep, dark circles curved under her eyes, not a whip stitch of makeup left, and she looked so beautiful and delicate that my heart went out to her even more. I uttered a nasty word that I normally thought hard about before even using it in one of my books.

  “I am going to wake up every lawyer in the state of Texas until I find someone to come down here and get you out,” I assured Katy.

  She bit down on her lip. “Thank you. I didn’t do this, Alice.”

  All my unspoken doubts vanished. At that moment, I believed her totally. I had no idea how the actual killer had deliberately left a trail of clues that pointed to Katy, but I damned sure was going to find out. One way or the other. Whether Jack liked it or not.

  Twila gently nudged me aside — not so gently Jack — so she could peer in the window. “Our best recourse is to find out who actually committed the murder,” she told Katy. “Is there anything you can think of that we should know?”

  I held my breath, but Katy must have just shaken her head. Jack alertly kept an ear on every word, and Granny impatiently waited her turn. Twila sighed and said, “Well, know that we’re doing our best, Katy. If you think of anything —" She inclined her head at Sir Gary, indicating the ghost could act as a messenger. I smirked at the understanding on Jack’s face.

  Twila moved back, and Granny thumped up. She had to stand on tiptoe to see inside; her eyes barely cleared the bottom of the window. “Don’t you worry none. Well, not any more’n you have to, bein’ inside that there nasty place." She swiveled her head toward Jack. “Looks like your cleanin’ people are about the laziest bunch on God’s green earth. Iffen you want, Katy, I’ll bring me a bucket and bleach in the mornin’ and give that place a good scrubbin’.”

  “Thank you, Granny,” Katy replied. “But I’ll manage. It helps more than you can realize just to know you’re all working to get me out of here.”

  “We’ll be back,” Granny said with an emphatic nod. She stepped back, and Jack reached to close the window. But not before he glanced inside. He raised the keys toward the lock, but three huffs of in-drawn breath made him change his mind. He left the window partially open.

  For a brief minute, none of us moved, as though we were taking a moment’s silence to properly revere an absolutely horrible situation. We stared at the steel door, the tiny window. I think every one of us was imagining ourselves inside there — imagining the close confines, the concrete walls, no contact with anyone. The absolute aloneness.

  Recalling Sir Gary’s claustrophobia, I wondered for a second how the ghost was standing it. But at least he knew he could leave anytime he wanted to.