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WHEN CARTER WAS DONE questioning Mary-Alice, he called in Ida Belle, and then Gertie. He made the usual amount of progress (none) with Ida Belle, who was about as talkative as a Buckingham Palace guard. Gertie, by contrast, answered his every question in mind-numbing detail. She spoke of the state of her digestion, the scheduled repairs on her ancient Cadillac, her recent struggle with writer’s block, and the fact that she’d misplaced an object she called “Little Ricky,” which Carter dearly hoped wasn’t a vibrator.
It was as if they didn’t trust him with important information, Carter realized. It was infuriating. At least Mary-Alice Arceneaux had tried to be helpful.
Carter had delegated Fortune’s interview to Kyle Breaux, the other deputy sheriff. Breaux wasn’t the most skilled interrogator, but it was important to make sure everything appeared on the up and up. Carter didn’t want to give anyone (specifically Celia Arceneaux, who was spitting nails that Sinful’s most eligible bachelor had hooked up with “that Yankee trollop”) any pretext for filing another complaint.
Rather than stop for lunch after the morning’s interviews, he grabbed an energy bar from his desk and drove over to Harriet’s Books. He couldn’t imagine the motherly Harriet Hamilton as a murderer. But given what he’d heard that morning, Harriet was certainly a person of interest. The book shop was close enough to walk, but both the temperature and the humidity were approaching triple digits. Carter much preferred five minutes of air-conditioned comfort in his truck to a miserable fifteen-minute walk in the relentless heat.
He found the book shop locked and dark. That was understandable; Deale’s dead body had been found in front of the store that morning. Harriet had likely decided to close the store that day out of respect. Carter went around the building and mounted the steps to the apartment above, but no one answered his knock. He listened for movement but heard nothing. The windows were closed, and the air conditioning unit was silent. He might have to come back with a search warrant. In the meantime, he could knock on some doors.
He crossed the alleyway behind the shop and started down the row of small but well-maintained bungalows. Talking to the residents, he discovered that there had been a single gunshot heard between midnight and one in the morning (time estimates differed). Of course gunshots weren’t that unusual. People hunted at night, and sometimes bored kids would get drunk, steal a boat, and careen down the bayou shooting at tree stumps. Still, Harriet’s neighbors thought it was unusual, so Carter decided it was worth noting. Marva Guidry went so far as to opine that it sounded to her like a .22 Derringer pistol.
Carter knew that Buford Fontleroy Deale had been felled by a single .22 round to the chest. But the murder weapon hadn’t been found. If the murderer had tossed it into the bayou, there was little chance of recovering it.
There was one more thing: One of the neighbors was certain he’d seen a white SUV parked in the alley behind the shops. And Nora the Lush, who hadn’t been seen sober for at least fifteen years, insisted that she had seen a pearl-colored Lincoln Navigator that night.
Carter knew of one person who drove such a vehicle: Florentin Menard.
Carter made the short drive out to Deale Property Management on the chance that Menard was there. He found the office open. Behind the front desk was a middle-aged woman wearing a party hat and a necklace of blinking lights.
Carter cleared his throat and the woman looked up, her cheeks dimpled in a sly smile.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m looking for Mr. Florentin Menard.”
“No problem.” She picked up the phone and spoke into it, then hung up.
“Mr. Menard’s in Deale’s old office. The one at the end of the hall with the tacky overpriced furniture and the ginormous TV screen on the wall. You can go on back.”
She had said Deale’s old office. So he didn’t have to break the news to her about Deale’s death. That was a small relief.
Carter awkwardly touched the brim of his campaign hat.
“Uh, happy birthday, ma’am?”
“Oh, it’s not my birthday,” she said cheerfully. “Buford Deale was found shot to death this morning. Of course you know that. It’s why you’re here, right?”
Carter opened his mouth, found no appropriate words, and closed it again.
“We all grieve in our own way, Officer.” She went back to the game of Solitaire on her computer, humming merrily. Carter made his way to the back office.
Florentin Menard was already standing when Carter walked in.
“Good afternoon, Officer. Please sit down. I assume your visit pertains to the tragic events of this morning?”
Menard came out from behind his desk, shook Carter’s hand, and hovered like a waiter until Carter sat down. Only then did Menard go back behind the desk and reseat himself in Deale’s chair.
Menard was not coy, which Carter appreciated. He told Carter that Deale’s death had put him temporarily in charge of the company, and because of that he understood quite well how he might appear to have a motive to kill his boss. But he added that Deale did not have a will, and under Louisiana law the company would pass to Deale’s next of kin.
“I wasn’t able to find any living family.” Carter said. “We have an ex-wife who remarried and moved out of state, but there was no record of any children.”
“An indiscretion on the part of Mr. Deale resulted in an heir,” Menard’s expression was neutral. “It was this indiscretion that precipitated the dissolution of his marriage.”
“Really? I’m surprised I never heard about that,” Carter said. “The Deales are pretty high-profile around here.”
“I was responsible for dealing with the aftermath, as discreetly as I could. A public scandal would have been in no one’s interest.”
Carter wrote in his notebook.
“Okay. You don’t benefit from Deale’s death, is what you’re telling me.”
“I do not, officer. Mr. Deale’s demise renders my future uncertain, and puts my financial security at risk. It is the last thing I would have desired. I do not like uncertainty.”
Carter looked up and met his eyes.
“We have a witness that places your car near Harriet Hamilton’s shop yesterday evening.”
“Your witness is correct,” Menard said placidly. “I did drive to Sinful last night.”
“Why?”
“I intended to warn Harriet. Mr. Deale...she had fallen out of favor with him, you see. Harriet Hamilton was a superb tenant. And she is a good woman, officer. Mr. Deale could be...vindictive.”
“So what did you tell her?”
“Unfortunately, she was not at home. I haven’t been able to contact her.”
“You know we’ll have to have forensic accountants go through your books now,” Carter said.
Menard paled but kept his features still.
“I’m afraid you won’t find much of interest,” he said. “But you may count on my cooperation. And please...see if you can find Harriet. It’s not like her to disappear like this.”
On the way out, the receptionist offered Carter a cup of champagne. He was about to decline her invitation and hurry back to Sinful. Drinking on the job was frowned upon, and he had a million things on his to-do list.
But then he reconsidered. This was exactly how Fortune, Gertie, and the rest of them kept finding out things that he couldn’t, a fact that irritated him endlessly. They didn’t go around flashing badges and reading people their rights. They poked around and chatted with people, fed them home-baked brownies and iced tea, and above all, listened.
And Carter sensed this lady was worth listening to. If anyone was willing to dish the dirt, spill the beans, and whatever else an investigator might wish, it was this woman celebrating her boss’s murder with party hats and champagne.
“Yes ma’am.” Carter flashed her his most charming grin as he pulled up a chair to the side of her desk. “Most kind of you to offer.”