I called Miss Livy on Nestor’s cell. She spoke with the balanced sweetness of a grand Crú Chardonnay and called me “my dear” as if she meant it. And she agreed to see me despite my vague explanation.
I rented the cheapest car I could: a baby-puke-green subcompact, the size and frailty of which made me wonder if it would grow up into a real car someday. Fortunately, I only needed to coax the Matchbox lookalike as far as the eastern bank of Lake Pontchartrain. This was good, considering the last person who’d rented the car apparently had penchants for cheap cigars and fishing. Worse, though, the radio buzzed. I took this as long as I could before pulling over.
You see, I have this thing about static. It dates from childhood, when I decided I heard a pattern in the snap, crackle, and pop from my Rice Krispies. Mom tried to set me straight by explaining the difference between structured and nonstructured noise, which, of course, I didn’t appreciate. But, hey, I was seven; I wasn’t quite mature enough for the white noise discussion. Plus, my oldest brother kept flicking soggy Cheerios at me every time Mom turned around to draw on the kitchen white board. Thus, I ended up feeling both overwhelmed and soggy.
So, the static problem had to be fixed. After a little troubleshooting, I tracked the problem to the speakers. In the process, I found a wad of gum under the driver’s seat. I can use that. But when I picked up the gum with a paper napkin, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. Something about the gum, or at least the texture of it, was disturbingly familiar. I searched my memory but nothing came to me, so I removed the panel, reseated the wires leading from the amplifier onto the hook-up jacks, and got back on the road. I’d fixed it in ten minutes, but I was unable to shake the feeling that I’d just missed something important.
Following Miss Livy’s instructions, I went east on I-10 toward Slidell, a drive that carried me over the vast stretch of Lake Pontchartrain. The water, an unremarkable gray, reflected a quiescent sky as a light wind pushed low, lazy crests across the surface. I found my exit and wound my way through the narrow streets of a well-groomed suburb. Miss Livy’s was a modest, one-story plank house painted butter cream with porticos the color of vanilla icing. The door was a crisp green, inlaid with cut-glass, and the lawn as squarely kept as Great Uncle Sammy’s crew cut. A weed-free flagstone path led from the porch to a freshly painted picket fence.
I exited the car, closing the door carefully so as not to shatter it. As I reached the bottom step of her porch, a woman the size of a tall child opened the door, her face both aged and ageless. Though heavily wrinkled, her skin glowed with health, and her deep brown eyes sparkled with the kind of self-awareness that comes of having seen enough to know that one can never see enough. Her white hair, angora-soft and plaited into a long braid, draped over the shoulder of her pink sheath dress. Thin arms ended in hands that, though peppered with age-spots, still displayed sinewy strength and long-fingered grace. Her fingertips had a pronounced spade shape, the nails short and shiny, the quintessential mistress of the piano.
I mounted the porch hoping that an hour marinating in cigar smoke and fish stink wouldn’t be too obvious. “Ms. Brouchard?”
With a warm smile and delicate drawl that spoke of small talk outside the Piggly-Wiggly, chit-chat by a raffle-ticket booth at the State Fair, and firm but gentle admonitions to rambunctious six-year-olds on the porch at church, she said, “Now, my dear, if you don’t call me Miss Livy, I won’t know to whom you are speaking.”
I smiled, instantly charmed. “Yes, ma’am, I will. I hate to bother you. I’m wondering if I could ask you about a former student of yours, Adalida Thibodaux.”
Her brows drew together, and her eyes softened. “My heavens, that’s a name I haven’t heard in many a day. But I’m afraid she passed on, oh, three years ago now.”
“Actually, it’s as much about her father.”
“I see. Mr. Thibodaux’s been hurt, hasn’t he?”
I blinked. “How could you possibly know that?”
“My dear, I’ve seen so much tragedy and death, I can recognize it in a person’s eyes. It has followed you to my porch this day.” I turned, half-expecting to see the Angel of Death, scythe and all. She chuckled. “I was speaking metaphorically, child.”
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”
“Don’t you worry. Mr. Boogedy’s not behind you. My, but you spook easily. Yankee?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.”
“Don’t fret. We all have our crosses to bear,” she said, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.
I broke into a wide smile, which she returned with a gentler version. Stepping back, she gestured me in. “You come in, now. I am a little old lady, so, of course, there is tea inside. And I have found the most wonderful recipe for cinnamon rolls for my bread machine. I made some this morning. We can pop them into the microwave and heat them right up.”
I stepped in, and the rich scent of fresh baked rolls wafted over me. I could almost taste the icing drizzling over each spicy crevice. The décor of the small, neat home was equally inviting, shades of vanilla and blueberry predominating, the light of crystal lamps mutely reflected in the surface of well-polished furniture. As we cleared the door, I spotted her piano, a grand of immensity and grace. Its surface gleamed like an ebony mirror. Even more impressive was the sight above it. My mouth formed a silent oh as I gaped at dozens of small portraits suspended from the ceiling on colored ribbons.
At least half the pictures were in black and white and most were school portraits. Every face smiled. I approached, mesmerized. “Who are all these people?”
“Students. The old and the new.”
Unable to resist, I reached up toward the display. My hand grazed a black-and-white in a simple silver frame that hung from a faded red ribbon. A girl gazed at me from under a soft bob of dark hair curved around pudgy cheeks. Cat-eye glasses surrounded her large eyes, and a small choker of pearls rested above her Peter-Pan collar.
“That’s Patty-Jean Turnbout. She married Jimmy Stanslin. He owns a local hardware franchise.” Miss Livy touched a newer, silver-framed color portrait of a young man with the same pudgy face and large eyes. “Jimmy Junior when he was a boy. He’s just started his first year at Georgia State.”
“You must have been doing this for a very, very long time.”
She nodded somberly. “Since God was a corporal.”
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were—”
She chuckled, her eyes aflame with amusement. “Older than dirt? That’s all right, my dear. I’m just teasing you. Look at this one.” She pointed to a washed-out color photo of a boy kneeling beside a golden retriever. “This rapscallion is Stevie Knox. He might be our senator next year. What a fine young man. He never practiced, but he never lied about it. Of course, the way things are in politics, his honesty might mean a short career.” She chuckled again.
Her smile faded as she caressed a more recent picture of a woman. “Carol Simmons, forty-year-old mother of four. She started taking lessons two years ago. She was so looking forward to learning to make music. She would not let her age deter her. She was determined to show her little girls that a woman can accomplish anything if she puts her mind to it.” Her brows drew together, wrinkles carving soft furrows on her face, the light in her eyes dimming, like a bulb being draped with fine linen, the diminished glow forcing an observer to peer that much deeper, to mentally venture out of narcissistic self-awareness and focus, for one moment, on the suffering of someone other than oneself. “She died in a car accident last year. Her nephew came to the porch one day and told me. He had the same look you have now.”
Unable to think of an appropriate reply, I looked into the forest of photographs until I found the one I sought. It was of a much younger Adalida than in the picture in Jake’s lockbox. But the nose, the eyes—Jake’s eyes—were unmistakable. I brushed away a curlicue end of the ribbon that hung in front of those joy-filled eyes.
“Yes, that’s our Adalida,” Miss Livy said. “But that sweet child’s been gone for some time now. And her mother left us well before. I knew her better than her husband, as it was mostly she who retrieved Adalida from her lessons.” She smiled as if picturing some poignant memory. “Although, I remember many years ago, when Adalida was nine, or perhaps ten, her mother had gone to Savannah to tend a sick aunt. A terrible storm broke out in the late afternoon, and only Mr. Thibodaux could pick up Adalida. She was my last of the day. He called to say the entire police force had been called out to duty. I assured him I would be happy to care for his little girl until he arrived.”
“She must have been so frightened.”
“She was. But Adalida was not an anxious child by nature. She asked me to turn the chair, that one in front of the window, so that she could watch the road. And there she sat, her hands folded, patiently waiting. She knew how dangerous it was out there and that her daddy was in the middle of it. But she did not fuss. The only contrary thing she did was refuse to go to bed until he came for her. So I drifted off on the couch, and she slept in the chair.”
“What happened?”
“He came in about three a.m., and he was a sight: bone-tired, muddy, soaked to the skin. Oh, but when his little girl rushed to him, he picked her up and held her like she was his only salvation.” Tears filled the corners of her eyes, and she dabbed at them. “He hated sitting on my couch as dirty as he was, but I made him do so and brought him sandwiches and coffee. And when I came in from the kitchen, Adalida sat there next to him, patting his hand. Like this.” Miss Livy reached over and stroked my hand gently. “He was a strong man but so tired, close to collapsing. And his little girl comforted her daddy like she was the grown-up. I will never forget that.” She smiled at me. “Dear me, now I’ve got you doing it.”
I wiped the corner of my eye, the scene reminding me of my own father. In his calm way, my dad had been a real man of action. With his death, my strained relationship with my mother deteriorated even further. I sniffed back the tears, pushing aside the guilt that accompanied my every thought of her these days. “Ma’am, I heard that Jake and Adalida were very close but that they fought over her boyfriend.”
A white eyebrow rose. “Did you now?”
I went on gently. “And that Adalida committed suicide as a result.”
Miss Livy’s eyes flashed. “She did not! I don’t know what truly happened, but that child would not have done that.”
“People have killed themselves over irreconcilable relationships before.”
Her small chin went up. “No. Not her. Not that child. Absolutely not.”
“Did Jake feel that way too?”
“My word, yes. He quit his job and investigated to the exclusion of all else, but nothing was found to indicate foul play. Mind you, the details of the incident were hushed, as is appropriate. She was a policeman’s daughter—a well-respected policeman. Happily, at least some news people have the good manners to mind their p’s and q’s in such a situation.”
In my family, the latter would be considered censorship, but imagining this delicate, well-mannered pianist, who could undoubtedly reverberate the walls to the ardent rhythms of the third movement of Beethoven’s “Appassionata,” squaring off with my Great Aunt Gertrude, an endowed chair of Feminist Jurisprudence at Cornell Law School who could rev up from “free speech” to “fascist manipulation of the media” in 6.7 seconds—and not being willing to bet as to whom might win such a contest—I decided not to pursue the subject. “I see. Do you know anything about Adalida’s boyfriend?”
“She was no longer my student by then. I don’t like to gossip, but …”
“Please, Miss Livy. It could be important.”
She folded and refolded her hands on her lap, as if reluctant to proceed. “Well … to be honest, my dear, I suspect that Adalida’s beau might have been a married man or some such.”
“Why do you say that?” Curious. Fancy suspected the same.
“There was something, how would one say, forbidden about the affair.”
“Forbidden?”
“Perhaps that isn’t the right word. It’s rather difficult to say since it all occurred the summer Adalida went to Chicago, three years ago.”
“Chicago?” I said with a start. “What was Adalida doing in Chicago?”
“She followed young Christopher.”
“Christopher? Wait, hold on. Who’s Christopher?”
“He was one of her best friends since childhood, although he mostly went by Chris.” Miss Livy touched a candid snapshot of a young boy, a baseball cap shading his phenomenally light blue eyes beneath which escaped short tendrils of jet-black hair. I cocked my head, staring intently at the youthful face. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something familiar about him. A second ribbon looped around the back of the picture and I brought it forward, revealing a lock of hair tied in a bow at the end. “What’s this?”
“That lock of hair is his. It’s an old southern tradition dating back to before the War of Northern Aggression. Ladies made trinkets from their hair, jewelry and cords for necklaces. They gave locks to friends, and, of course, to their husbands to carry into battle. People even wore rings made from the hair of a dead loved one.”
Yuck. “Um, how romantic,” I said.
“Christopher gave me strands of his in exchange for some of mine.” Miss Livy stroked the white braid that lay across her shoulder. “Oh, my hair was much darker then.” She laughed, a twinge of girlish self-consciousness echoing in the lightness of the sound. “It made me feel absolutely foolish. But there was something about that young man. He had a way about him.”
I smiled, enchanted. “How do you mean?”
“He had a genuineness about him. It was as if he could hold up a magic mirror to a person that reflected the best in them, make them believe in themselves. And he was one of those rare few who could see the good in everyone.” She grinned at me, “I can see you don’t understand.”
I tried to affect an accepting smile. “No, no, he sounds very nice.”
“True, young Christopher had to be seen to be believed. I’ll show you.”
She led us to the sofa before the large bay window. I took a seat on cushions of blue and cream flowers. As she sat beside me, she touched the screen of a tablet computer that sat propped on the coffee table before us. With a series of quick flicks across its face, she pulled up a video. It started in the middle of a young woman’s squeal of laughter, which abruptly ended with a high-pitched giggle and “No, stop, stop, stop, stop! I can’t hold it still.” The validity of that statement was born out by the shaky visual, initially focused on short withering grass but then swooping up to pan about a dozen sneakered shuffling feet, before finally settling on a clearly over-stimulated gaggle of teenagers. They jostled for position, mugging for the camera: boys flexing their muscles and shouldering each other out of the way as the girls struck diva poses that would make Ru Paul proud. There was nothing glamorous about any of them, however. They were dressed in torn, dusty jeans and t-shirts. Their skin, ranging from Nordic pale to almost ebony black, gleamed with sweat; faces, bodies, and clothes were streaked with dirt and paint. Despite the signs of hard labor, the energy they exuded was like a tsunami of adrenaline washing over me.
From the background a familiar voice boomed out. My heart leapt with surprise and joy but then sunk with dismay as the memory of the current state of its owner rolled over me.
Jake strode into view, and I gasped. I recognized the voice as he said, “Hey, pichouette, give it to Papa.” The body, however—holy crap! Was that really Jake? F. Gloria had been so right. He had changed. For one, I wouldn’t have believed Jake could ever have been more intimidating than he is now. But this younger version of my boss would have made a Special Forces drill sergeant step back: tall, lean, and square-shouldered as Captain America.
What in God’s name had happened to him?
Before I could evaluate further, the camera was passed off to him, and another figure came into view: Adalida. With another high-pitched laugh, she bounded in front of the camera before turning to face it. Alight with guileless joy, she blew kisses like the queen of a county fair. She wore a faded red “Cabrini High School” t-shirt and was caked with dirt and sweat. But that didn’t tamp her verve one iota. Indeed, Adalida Thibodaux was life incarnate. She had a country-girl figure, feminine and round but still firm; muscles that could lift a bale of hay but overlaid with maybe one too many beignets. Robust was the word for her—and vibrant, energetic, alive.
And now she was dead.
I licked my lips in thought. My Aunt Marina, an anthropologist, had studied “ghost concepts” and found a common theme among even the most widely disparate cultures. Many saw ghosts as lingering snippets of a person’s soul, forever trapped into repeating some action of profound importance to him or her: walking a turret in anxious lookout for a loved one who never returned; contentedly kneading bread for a family long since passed; or joyously leaping into a lake from which they had never emerged.
As I watched images of Jake’s dead daughter play to the camera, face bright with heat and life, I smiled. If someday my “ghost” were immortalized as a stream of zeroes and ones stored on the cloud, swapped between servers to be recalled, at will, by the swipe of a finger, I hoped I’d be forever trapped in joy as Adalida now was.
I rubbed the back of my neck and stole a smile at Miss Livy, who smiled back knowingly, as if having read my mind.
I returned to the video. I couldn’t tell whether the kisses Adalida blew were meant for the camera or her father, but they elicited a low chuckle from him. “Okay, you monkeys,” he said, addressing the swirling, bouncing group of adolescents. His grumpy delivery didn’t hide the pride and affection in his voice when he said, “Settle down! It’s been a hard day’s work, and we’ve got a long drive home. So let’s get this done. Up on the steps. Let’s go! Move it!”
The camera panned as the whooping teens leapt onto the porch of a modest house that still gleamed of drying paint. They arranged themselves into two ragged rows.
“Boys in front!” Jake shouted. “Down on one knee. Girls in the back row.” To the groans of male protest and the taunting laughter of females, Jake added, “Quit your complaining, fellas. I promise you, life will be a whole hell of a lot better for you if you learn to give a lady her due.”
A tall black girl slipped her hip to one side and said, “Oh, hell yes!” And then blushed and lowered her eyes, adding, “Sorry, Mr. Thibodaux. I know you don’t like swearing.”
What?!Wow, has he changed!
“You’re fine, Alyssa,” he said in a tolerant tone. “Okay, who’s got the sign?”
“I do, sir!” said a male voice, quickly followed by the appearance of its owner: Chris.
All eyes turned as a young man strode into the picture. At first glance he was a typical American teenager in the prime of his youth. He had the build of a baseball player, muscular shoulders and legs but without the bulk of a quarterback or the rangy height of a basketball player. His black hair was short, the front gelled like an ebony fence, and he was covered in paint and glistening with perspiration. But when the camera caught his face, I caught my breath. The picture had not done him justice! His eyes! I’d never seen such color before; a pale hue so distinctive they reminded me of Hera, Queen of the Greek Gods, whose peacock blue eyes could capture a mortal’s soul and hold it in eternal bliss. He may not have had the classic chiseled handsomeness of a Zach Efron, but with those eyes, Chris would have stolen the show from him easily. Yet, as he ran up the stairs, I could see what Miss Livy meant about his ability to put people at ease: the kids smiled like they’d just eaten some truly special brownies. Chris was definitely BMOC but without the cocksure bravado that would have sent nerds like I was in high school sulking resentfully into the background. I found myself really wanting to meet him.
On reaching the top stair, he handed one edge of a white, plastic-coated sign to a short Asian boy, saying, “Evan, dude, help me out, my man.”
Evan leapt up from his down-on-one-knee pose. Face alight with the honor of being singled out by Chris, he took one end of the sign and together they unrolled it to reveal a huge black font on a pale green background that read “Cross the Line, Build the Future.” The teens lined up behind it as Chris and Evan anchored either side.
“Cross the line?” I said to Miss Livy.
She tapped the “pause” icon on the screen. “It’s a local youth organization sponsored by our police. It refers to crossing the lines that divide us: race, gender, religion, social status. Mr. Thibodaux even added a ‘crossing the Mason Dixon line’ element by getting a friend of his from Chicago, a chief of police I believe, to arrange for children from a high school there to form a similar group. This video is of a project they did jointly with Habitat for Humanity to build new homes in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood in that city.”
I nodded, and she hit the “play” icon.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez?” Jake said, off screen.
A middle-aged man and a heavily pregnant woman, accompanied by a toddler of perhaps four years old with deep brown eyes and cascading tendrils of brown hair, solemnly walked up the stairs. They were met with friendly hoots and a chorus of “Hey, Mrs. R.! Hola, Mr. R.! Hi, Maria, did you see your new bedroom?”
As they took their place standing beside the kneeling Christopher, Adalida, who had been standing behind him, draped her arms around his neck and kissed the top of his head. Her face radiated contentment and love. He looked up at her, beaming. She bent, brushed his cheek with her lips, and then stood, resting her hands on his shoulders as all eyes turned to the small family.
From behind the camera, Jake said, “Juan, Emma, and Maria, on behalf of Habitat for Humanity and members of the New Orleans and Chicago chapters of “Cross the Line,” welcome to your new home.”
“Yeah!” Chris shouted. He turned his head. “On three, guys! One, two, three—”
“Cross the line! Build the future!” The teens shouted in raucous unison, flashing hand signals and pumping arms in the air. This followed by choruses of “Yeah! All right! Woohoo!”
Mr. Rodriguez cleared his throat, his eyes swimming with tears he was clearly trying to hold back. His wife made no such attempt. She glowed with pride and anticipation, large tears rolling unabashedly down her face. “It’s so beautiful,” she said with heavily accented English. “Gracias, everyone. You cannot know what this means to us. We can raise our family with pride in this house. Family is everything. And you are all now our family, too. Maria?” she said, hugging the little girl to her legs. “Will you say thank you?”
Maria swayed, smiled shyly, and clutched the hem of her dress. “Mommy, I got to pee.”
Laughter erupted. “Me too!” A boy shouted.
“Oh my God, so do I! Me first!” Alyssa squealed and then merrily jostled with the boy to get through the door of the house before him.
Jake’s voice rang out as the video picture swayed and dipped back to the ground. “Everyone hit the head. I’m not stopping a hundred times on the drive home. Where the heck’s the off—” The screen went blank.
We both took a deep breath. I felt the weight of despair starting to sink in my stomach. They’d been so happy, Jake and Adalida. And now she was dead and he … was he next?
I straightened my shoulders. No. Not now. Now I need to move forward, to find what kind of monster would do such terrible things to this once-happy man and so many others. And to me, if he could. No. Mope later. Act now.
Moving us back on track, I said. “Um. You know, Miss Livy, from what I saw there, I’d say Chris and Adalida had something going. Are you sure Chris wasn’t her boyfriend?”
Miss Livy lifted an eyebrow. A subtle flush bloomed on her cheeks. “There was a time when I thought that they were a couple. We could all see the affection. I hate to say it, but … I heard that Christopher had, upon occasion, been seen in the company of … well, others.”
“Other women?”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly other women?”
“Correct.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, my dear, if one is not a woman then one is …” She motioned with her hand as if expecting me to complete the sentence.
I shrugged. “A girl?”
She raised an eyebrow. “No, dear. A man.”
“Ohhh. Chris was gay. Was that a problem?” I said, immediately on the defensive that, in this day and age, people could still carry such ridiculous prejudices.
She waved a long-fingered hand in the air. “There were rumors. And, for some people, yes, my dear, that is still an issue.”
I sighed, not really wanting to pry as to whether she was one of those people. Never ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer.
She went on. “Still, Adalida and Christopher were always close. They were both artists: he a painter, and she an interior designer. I believe her pursuit of art brought them both to Chicago the summer she died. As I recall, Christopher was accepted by a rather prestigious summer arts program, one he became aware of during their stay in Chicago for the project you just saw. After high school, Adalida applied for an internship at a Chicago school of design and was accepted. Her father would not let her go to such a place alone, of course. So, Mr. Thibodaux arranged to join her for two months. I don’t really know what happened after that. But I do know that Adalida came back angry enough to spit fire at young Christopher and equally furious with her father.” She shifted her stance, her physical fidgeting displaying the mental discomfort her voice intimated. “When Christopher came home a few weeks later, they made up, as I heard it, yet things remained horribly awry between Adalida and her father. I’d like to believe that, given time, a father and daughter’s love would have seen them through the anger.” Miss Livy looked away, the shadow of regret on her face.
I rubbed my hands together, touched with sadness for the man I knew and cared about. “But before that happened, she killed herself.” Miss Livy opened her mouth to protest. I quickly added, “Or was said to have done so.”
Miss Livy inclined her head. “That seems the case.”
“I wonder if she met that boyfriend in Chicago when she went to visit Chris?”
“I honestly don’t know, my dear.”
Hmm. Hunter would have been in Chicago by then. If Adalida’s beau had been a married man or otherwise “forbidden” as Miss Livy said, maybe Jake had talked to Hunter about … whoa! Could Adalida have had a fling with Hunter? Maybe she went to Chicago not to study art with her childhood friend, but to be with Hunter! Oh, Jake would have been furious!
Wait. Madison, get real. Jake and Hunter couldn’t possibly have remained friends if that’s what happened. Unless Adalida had been the aggressor. I put my finger to my lips in thought and then went on. “Okay, so I can see her being mad at her father for not accepting her boyfriend. But why was she angry at Chris?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“It sounds like I should talk to Christopher.” I stared at his portrait, perplexed. Where had I seen him before? “Do you know where he lives, Miss Livy?”
Her easy smile turned downward. “I’m afraid he disappeared soon after Adalida died. He may have gone back to live with his sister who’d moved to Chicago to be with him.”
“Chris had a sister in Chicago?” There was a pricking at the back of my neck, as if my body knew I was on to something and was poking at my mind to catch up already.
“An older sister,” Miss Livy added. “She went to the city to become someone, as they say today. Although she, eventually, moved again to join family in Canada. Québec, I believe.”
“You wouldn’t know how to get in touch with her, would you?”
She nodded. “I’ll print the address for you.” With a few more finger flicks, she’d called up an address book on the tablet, selected the information, and sent it to a printer that I heard whir to life in the room next door. She left the room to retrieve the document.
I stood and went back to study Chris’s picture as I waited for Miss Livy’s return. He seemed so very familiar, but I couldn’t place him. It was infuriating!
My stomach rumbled as delectable aromas wafted from the kitchen to taunt me. Miss Livy came back, scented like a cinnamon roll, and handed me a paper. “It’s the address of Chris’s cousin, Melissa DuChampes. Even if Christopher is not there, his sister, Tina, may be.”
My knees almost buckled in surprise. “Tina! Did you say Tina?”
“Why yes, my dear. Christopher’s sister’s name was Christina. But she went by Tina.”
The woman from the alley was Chris’s sister! I grabbed Chris’s picture, covering those distracting and magnificent eyes with one hand. Light bulbs went off in my head like popcorn as the similarity of the shape of the cheeks and jaw became immediately obvious. “That’s why Chris looked so familiar! This explains everything!”
“It does?” Miss Livy asked, seeming alarmed by my intensity.
“Um. Well, maybe not everything.” I paused, scratching my ear. “Actually, it doesn’t explain much of anything. But it must mean something. It can’t be a coincidence.”
I paced, my heartbeat quickening. Tina was the sister of Adalida’s best friend, Chris, who may or may not have been her boyfriend because he may or may not have been gay. Three years ago, Adalida may or may not have committed suicide. After which Chris disappeared. Or did he kill Adalida, making it look like a suicide, then run away? But why? And why, after three years, did Chris’s sister want to kill Jake? And if Chris wasn’t Adalida’s boyfriend, who was? Hunter? Could he stoop that low? No. Jake would never have forgiven him for that. Yet what if Hunter had wanted revenge for being denied Adalida? But after three years? What was the trigger?
Wait! Jake taught George a trigger to warn me because he knew he was in danger. Something must have happened recently. What? Maybe Tina killed Adalida, and Jake just found out. But why would Tina want Adalida dead in the first place?
I shook my head, trying to break free the haphazard strands of my thoughts. “Miss Livy, I need to find Tina.”
“Then let’s try to call her.” She led me back to the couch and to a cordless phone sitting on the glass and mahogany end table. Taking the paper, she dialed the number for Melissa Du-Champes and handed me the phone.
Melissa answered on the first ring. I asked for Chris, but she cut me short and told me my question wasn’t funny. I sputtered, and Miss Livy motioned for me to hand her the phone. Within moments of congenial, but firm, conversation, Miss Livy hung up.
“She wouldn’t let you talk to him, either?”
“She was very circumspect, but she’s obliged to protect her family, after all. However, I think if you went there, you might get to see Tina, at least.”
“Go there?” I rubbed at my stiffening shoulder and rotated my neck. I’d have to ask for help now. I couldn’t afford to let Tina get away. “Hunter,” I grumbled absently.
“My dear?”
“I was thinking about Maxwell Hunter, Jake’s ex-partner. I’ll need his help.”
“Not a pleasant thought.” Miss Livy raised an eyebrow.
“You know him?”
“Not personally. If you will pardon my un-Christian attitude, I should not like to. I have heard he is quite difficult, especially since his wife died.”
“Wife?” I said, irritated with myself for the jealousy the word enflamed.
“As I heard it, his wife was the calming influence in his life. He’d always been hot-tempered, but after she passed on, some ten years back, he became as the devil himself. Mr. Thibodaux truly had his hands full keeping that man out of jail. In fact, Mr. Hunter was, how do they say, allowed to retire following some sort of trip to our nation’s capital five years ago.”
“Really?” I remembered the dry cleaning ticket from Jake’s lockbox. Perhaps there was some connection. “I’d bet that put Hunter in bad with his precinct.”
“Indeed. Heaven help him if he ever gives them reason to cast him in jail, I can tell you.”
The devil tapped me on the shoulder. “Is that so?”
Miss Livy narrowed her eyes. “You look like the cat that just got the birdcage open.”
“I think I just did. Do you mind if I make another quick call? This one’s local.”
“Not at all, my dear. Go right ahead.”
I called F. Gloria to see what had happened to Hunter. He was in jail, as I suspected. She told me it had taken several of the store’s security personnel to do it, but they’d taken Hunter down and held him for the local police. Hanging up, I told Ms. Livy about the incarceration. I didn’t say why Hunter was in jail; it felt too indelicate to mention the circumstances to such a lady. Happily, she didn’t press for details. I said, “If I can get in to see him, I think I can convince him to fund a trip to see Tina.”
“That would be uncharacteristically kind of him,” she said doubtfully.
Not really, because I’m going to blackmail him. “Well, we, um, have a relationship.”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh, no!” I said quickly. “Nothing like that! It’s more that we’re both indebted to Jake and want to help him. But I doubt the local police will just let me stroll in to say hello.”
Miss Livy smiled, her eyes dancing. “Do you know that I attend church with the mothers of many of the policemen at the eighth district where Mr. Hunter is currently being detained?”
That brought a wide grin to my face.
“Hand me the phone, my dear.”