Mardi Gras Mambo (22 page)

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Authors: Gred Herren

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Brothers.
Just the thought made me bark out a nervous laugh. I definitely had brothers on the brain. I took another swig of water. There was a thought trying to take form in the outer reaches of my mind, something to do with brothers, yet it was just out of reach.
“Think what?” Blaine pressed again, and the thought was gone.
“I don't know.” I shrugged, frustrated. “I'm just wondering where she is, that's all.” I looked out into the rain. “I mean, she's probably okay, right?”
“I'm sure she is. You must have been really shocked to show up here and see this guy, right?” Blaine went on. “I mean, you thought he was dead.”
“Well, no. I mean, I knew they were twins. When we came by yesterday—”
“You came by before?”
I stood up, using the railing to help me to my feet. I was still wobbly. “Well, yeah. I mean—” I stopped myself. I could hear my mother's voice in my head:
Rule Number One is you never talk to the police, no matter what they say, unless you have a lawyer present. They will always try to get you to talk, to incriminate yourself, even if you haven't done anything wrong. They don't care; they're just trying to make a case no matter what, and if it means going after the wrong person they don't care. All they want to do is make their case and move on to the next one. It shouldn't be like that but that's how it is. They aren't bad people, after all, but they have a terrible job and they are overworked and underpaid. So, never, ever under any circumstances talk to the police without a lawyer present to look out for your best interests. The police aren't interested in helping you. They just want information.
Sitting there, holding my bottle of water, I looked at Blaine, who was looking at me with that innocent half smile.
He seemed so nice, so accommodating. Running out into the rain to get me water and aspirin, being so friendly, telling me we'd slept together, establishing a bond—
Getting me to talk.
This was a crime scene. Misha was dead. I was here, on the scene. Two nights ago his brother was murdered, and I had been there as well.
I was prime suspect number one, and I was talking to a cop without my lawyer present.
“You're very good,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone. “You almost had me convinced.”
He gave me an innocent look. “What are you talking about?”
“Drop it,” I said, a little sharper than I'd intended. “This conversation is over.” I flipped the phone open, cursing myself for almost falling for the oldest trick in the cop book. Sure, I hadn't done anything wrong—all I'd done was, once again, be in the wrong place at the wrong time—but I had no idea what they were looking for, what Blaine and Venus were trying to figure out. I doubted they were trying to prove that I'd done anything, or had anything to do with Misha's shooting, but better safe than sorry. I hit the speed dial button and punched in three. Storm answered on the second ring. I walked away from Blaine. “Storm, I'm at Aunt Sylvia's and the police are questioning me.” I took a deep breath. “Someone shot Misha, and I have no idea where Colin is. Can you get over here now?”
“Scotty, are you crazy?” I heard him take a deep breath. “I'm already on my way. I'm stuck behind the parade lining up—I'm trying to get around. Don't you remember calling me?”
“Oh, yeah.” What was wrong with me?
“Don't say a word to anyone. I'm on my way.”
I closed the phone and walked back to the stairs. “My lawyer's on his way over.”
Blaine shrugged. “I don't understand. Why do you think you need a lawyer if you haven't done anything wrong?”
Now that I knew what he was up to, it was almost so predictable to be laughable. “Drop the act, Blaine. I'm not saying another word about anything until Storm gets here.” I sat down next to him. But I couldn't resist. “So, when exactly did we sleep together?”
He looked away. “It's been a couple of years.”
“How did we meet?” I pressed him. “And where?”
“At Oz. It was a Saturday night. In the summer.”
“How did we meet?” I pressed, ninety-five percent positive he wouldn't be able to give me any details.
“On the dance floor. You were dancing with that friend of yours, the one with the dragon tattoo, and our eyes met and I came out on the dance floor and we started dancing together.”
Oh, could he be any more generic? I rolled my eyes and gave up. He was going to keep sticking to that lame story, apparently, and I wasn't in the mood to trip him up. I was annoyed at myself for almost falling for it, but to give credit where it's due, he was very good. I stared at him, searching the recesses of my memory. Yes, I'd seen him naked, and then it came to me exactly where. I'd seen him naked in the locker room at my gym, more than once. If he hadn't thrown me by claiming to have slept with me, I would have remembered right away. No, we'd never had sex. I blew out a sigh of relief. At least I wasn't going completely crazy. In all fairness to Blaine, I would definitely have remembered having sex with him. He was too sexy to forget.
His face was almost cherubic in its innocence. He was definitely good-looking, and a charmer. He could probably get women to open right up to those eyes, those sweet facial expressions, never letting on to them that he was gay, just charming the confessions right out of them. Yeah, he was good at what he did, all right. If I hadn't almost fallen for it, I could admire his skill. Instead, it just kind of made me mad.
Venus came out onto the porch. She smiled at me. “You guys have a nice chat?”
I gave her a weak smile. “Storm's on his way.”
She gave Blaine a quick glance and then turned her eyes back to me. When she spoke again, the friendly tone was gone from her voice. “All right, Scotty, you want to tell me what happened here? And what you were doing here?”
“I'm not saying a word until Storm gets here.”
“Scotty—I know you didn't shoot him,” Venus said. “I found the shell casings outside.” She shrugged when I didn't answer. “The shooter was outside, just off the side verandah. I just want to get your recollections while they're still fresh in your mind. Did you see anything?”
I kept silent.
“Why were you and Colin here?” she tried again.
I turned and walked away from her, down the verandah to where it turned and ran down the side of the house. I heard her swear, something like “goddamned Bradleys, anyway.” I stood there for a moment, staring, trying to remember everything that had happened. It bothered me that my memory was so sketchy. I supposed it was posttraumatic stress disorder or something. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off the area just outside the French doors to the living room and also fluttered in the wind and rain in the yard, where it connected some of the verandah columns with a couple of trees. Some guys with umbrellas and NOPD rain jackets were taking pictures out in the yard and others were sifting through the grass.
I narrowed my eyes. The shooter must have been near the tree where the techs were working, but that didn't make any sense. The house was raised; the verandah was at least three feet higher than the ground around the tree, and we'd been inside the house. I closed my eyes and tried to remember if the curtains on the doors had been open. I'd been sitting on the couch facing the doors, but for the life of me couldn't remember if the curtains had been open or not. I hadn't paid any attention to that, and once the shooting had started I'd dived for the floor. So, if the shooter had been out by the tree, he would have been shooting up at Misha, and that angle didn't seem right somehow.
I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to remember it exactly as it had happened.
I remembered the lamp on the table shattering.
The sound of the glass in the windows of the doors breaking—
had the curtains been open?
I remembered the look on Misha's face as he was hit, the way his eyes rolled up as his body fell forward into the table just as I dove to the floor, Colin yelling at me to get down, and everything kind of moving in a weird slow motion.
I opened my eyes. The curtains
had
to have been open.
Because how else would the shooter have even known that Misha was in the room? Surely he wouldn't have just started shooting blindly into the room, with no idea of whom he was going to hit.
I shivered. Had it been the Russian mob? Just opening fire blindly through the French doors and hoping to take out everyone in the room?
But there had been only two shots.
The curtains must have been open but I couldn't remember.
And if the curtains had been open, Colin must have seen the shooter.
He wouldn't have gone outside after him otherwise. He was too smart and well trained to just run outside when someone was shooting unless he could see that the coast was clear. He wouldn't just run out into the line of fire. Colin was incredibly observant; he noticed things that most people didn't.
So, if the curtains had been open, he had to have noticed the shooter. But before or after the shooting started?
I shook my head. It didn't make any sense. He must not have seen anyone until after the shooting started.
Please be okay, Colin. I couldn't stand losing both you and Frank—
I stopped that thought dead in its tracks.
Frank is fine. He is just out tricking. That is all.
Storm's silver Mercedes drove up, and I let out a sigh of relief. He opened an umbrella as he got out and had a big grin on his face as he walked up to the house. He nodded at Venus and Blaine as he walked past them and gave me a broad wink as he approached. “So, what fine mess have you gotten yourself into this time?”
I started whispering, filling him in on everything that had been going on since I'd last talked to him. He whistled several times—I left out the part about the triplets being our uncles. I knew he'd get pissed, and I needed him thinking clearly. I hadn't done anything wrong—at least I was pretty sure I hadn't—but there would be time to deal with all of the family nonsense later. I paused when the morgue guys brought the body out, and we watched in silence as they loaded it into their van. I felt like throwing up again but put that out of my mind and went back to my story.
Storm looked over at Venus and Blaine. “You haven't done anything wrong that I can see.” He shrugged. “I mean, outside of maybe obstructing justice. And that's a stretch; you aren't required by law to keep the police informed of anything you find out in the course of your own investigation.” He scratched his chin. “I don't like that one bit.”
I hadn't told him about Colin's confession—no telling what the family would think;
I
still didn't know what to think about that—and just said, “And I'm starting to worry about Frank.”
Storm laughed. “Come on, baby bro, how many times have you caused someone to do the same thing? Mom and Dad used to be terrified all the time when you didn't come home at night.” Storm leaned on the railing and looked down into the rosebushes. “It really surprises me that the Feds haven't turned up around here, to tell you the truth.”
“The Feds?” I stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Scotty—Russian mobsters?” He shook his head. “The Feds should be all over this, you know. And the triplets, well, they're Russian—foreign nationals. Who knows what they may or may not have been involved in back home. Pasha—it was Pasha, right? I can hardly keep them all straight—was involved with a Russian mobster. The Russian government has been trying to prove that the Russian mob has ties to the Chechnyans—and that just screams
terrorism
to me. Come to think of it, Homeland Security should have turned up by now.” He shook his head. “Come on, let's talk to them.” He reached over and rubbed my head. “I love you, little bro, but sometimes I swear I don't know how you get caught up in these things.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Lovers
choice between vice and virtue
 
 
 
They say that confession is good for the soul, but I've always dismissed that as a ploy by priests to get people back into the church. All those years I spent in Catholic schools I never really took the confessional all that seriously. Besides, my parents weren't Catholic; they were pagans, and every day when I got home from school they spent a good hour “deprogramming” (their word) me from what the priests had spent all day drilling into my head. Rain, Storm, and I were sent to Catholic schools because their schools were better than what the city had to offer; however, my parents suffered tremendously with liberal guilt for doing it. (Mom and Dad did set up a scholarship fund for deserving students from poor backgrounds to go to private schools; that probably helped their consciences somewhat.) I never really minded the religious lessons we were taught; I learned the catechism and all of that stuff—I was even consecrated in the church (it was necessary for me to stay in the schools). Although I didn't really believe in what I was learning, I did find some comfort in the rituals. I liked listening to Mass, especially in the original Latin. I liked the cool outfits the priests and higher-ups in the church wore; all those rich vibrant colors and great fabrics. Of course, when the Pope came to New Orleans we all were let out of school to go catch a glimpse of His Holiness; same thing whenever one of the reliquaries came to town to be venerated. Mom always called those occasions “The Great Holy Tour,” but I was always amazed at how the devout reacted: crying, swooning, and going into hysterics as the gold-plated box with this or that saint's finger or jawbone or toenail went past them. I also saw the merit of the confessional; you went in, admitted to your sins, and then the priest gave you acts of contrition and God forgave you. As I got older, I became a little more cynical about it.
How great was it to be Catholic? You could be a mass murderer as long as you went to confession and said a few “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys.”
But every once in a while, I would go to Mass at St. Louis Cathedral in the Quarter and lose myself in the pageantry and ritual. It was soothing.
The confessional was never really a problem until I hit puberty and started having feelings for other boys. Obviously, I knew what the Church's position on homosexuality was, so what was I supposed to say? I
knew
the priests, no matter how cool, would never approve or forgive my sexual attraction to other boys. By the same token, how was I supposed to explain my parents? How could I go in there and say, “My parents are pagans and every day tell me that everything I learn here about God is sexist, misogynist, racist crap and that the Catholic Church has been the single biggest instrument of repression in history?” No, that wouldn't go over too well with even the coolest of the priests. So I'd go into the little booth, ask forgiveness, and then recount minor things—swearing, yelling at my brother or sister, not honoring my parents, making fun of my teachers—those sorts of things. I just wanted to get it over with, get my assignment of “Our Fathers” or “Hail Marys” or whatever the priest wanted me to say and be done with it so I could get the hell out of there. In real life, I found that confessing to other people sometimes might make
me
feel better, but it didn't always have the same effect on them. Confession is not about the other person; it's about you. So, I figured, it's just easier never to do anything wrong or hurtful to someone else so you won't ever be put in that position of having to clear your conscience.
Answering Venus and Blaine's questions about the shooting, on the other hand, wasn't making me feel much better about anything. I wanted to try to call Colin's cell phone, find out where he was, make sure he was okay, but I couldn't do that until I was done with them. At first, it was easy answering their questions. They just wanted to know about the shooting—how it happened, what we were doing, where everyone was when the shots started coming—those kinds of things. When they asked about Aunt Sylvia, I didn't know how to answer. I drew a complete blank. I just shrugged. “I don't know where she is.”
“I know,” Storm interrupted. “She's playing bridge at my grandmother's.”
Of course, it's Monday—and Misha
had
told us that right when we arrived,
I remembered.
How strange that I'd forgotten that
. Every Monday Maman's bridge club met at the big house on Third Street. They had brunch, drank mint juleps, gossiped, and played bridge until about three in the afternoon—or whenever they got too drunk to keep track of the game anymore. Even on Lundi Gras, they still got together. Papa Diderot always called them “the hen pack” and made himself scarce whenever they gathered in his house. “I can't stand the sound of their cackling; it cuts right through me,” was what he'd always say when asked. What making himself scarce usually meant was heading down to the Boston Club and drinking Wild Turkey until he was poured into a cab later that afternoon. He always timed it so he arrived after the hens were gone; then he and Maman would stagger up to their bedroom and pass out until it was time for dinner and more drinks.
Blaine wrote down the address and phone number of Maman's house and walked down the verandah to make a call on his cell phone. I assumed he was getting someone to go over and let Sylvia know she was again a widow.
Better a cop than me,
I thought, shivering again. How exactly would Maman react to the news that her husband's bastard was dead? I tried to imagine it and couldn't.
“So, Scotty, what brought you and Colin over here this morning?” Venus asked, knitting her brows together. Blaine rejoined us.
“Well, as I said before, Aunt Sylvia—Mrs. Overton—is an old family friend,” I said carefully, looking over at Storm, who nodded. “And yesterday morning, we figured out that Aunt Sylvia owned the house where—” I stopped. How could I say this without confusing everyone? They all looked at me, and I swallowed, took a deep breath, thought “fuck it,” and plunged ahead. “Where who we
thought
was Misha was killed. And we found out that Aunt Sylvia had actually
married
him, which was kind of a shock, so we came over here to tell her. You can imagine my shock when Misha opened the door.” It wasn't entirely untrue; I just switched out why we came by today for why we came by yesterday.
Venus and Blaine exchanged a glance, then Venus said, “And that's when you found out that there were two of them?”
I nodded. “And that's when we—” I paused and looked over at Storm, who was frowning. There was no getting out of this now. I was going to have to let him in on the family secret—if he didn't already know. I had to tell the cops—they were going to find out sooner or later—but I didn't want Storm to find out at the same time. “Can I have a minute alone with my brother?”
“Fine.” Venus threw her hands up in the air. “Take as long as you want.”
Storm and I walked back down to the corner of the verandah. I swallowed.
How much did Storm know about the family connection? It was possible he already knew, but better safe than sorry.
“You might want to sit down.”
Storm made a face at me and leaned against the railing. “Nothing that comes out of your mouth is a shock to me anymore, little bro.” He lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of his nose. His eyes narrowed. “Is this going to be one of those things that made me sorry I'm a lawyer?”
I gave him a faint smile. “Oh, maybe. This may come as a surprise to you, Storm—I know it did to me—but Misha is—
was—
our uncle.”
Storm goggled at me. “What?”
One of the things I've always admired about Storm is his even temper. He never gets mad—about anything. He's always calm and rational, which is why he's such a good lawyer. Even when he was a kid, he never got angry—no matter how much he was provoked. So, I was hoping he would be able to keep cool about this. I explained everything Mom had told me the night before. As he listened, though, I began to get nervous. First, his eyes narrowed and his lips practically disappeared. Then his face went white, then red, and I found myself talking faster and faster. By the time I was finished I could tell he was about ready to blow his stack. He crushed his cigarette out with a vicious stomp of his foot. He turned and walked away from me for a second, then walked over to the railing and slammed his fist down on it. He turned back to me. “I. Don't. Fucking. Believe. This,” he said in a low voice. He ran his hands through his hair. “You mean to tell me Mom's known about this for fucking
months
and never said anything to us? Ever?”
“Stay calm, Stormy,” I said, shaking my head. “I know, I know. I was shocked—still am, in fact. It was quite a bit to take in.”
“And there's
three
of them.” He pulled a crumpled pack of Marlboros out of his pants pocket and lit another one with a shaking hand. He puffed away at it for a few moments until his head was half hidden in a cloud of smoke. But his face relaxed as he kept puffing, and I could see him pulling his head together. “Jesus Christ. I can't believe Mom kept this from us. So much for openness and complete honesty within the family, like she's been preaching to us since we were fucking born. Hypocrite.” He started pacing again, flicking ash from time to time. “Well, you can't tell them
that
—about the family connection.” He made a jerking motion with his hand in the general direction of Venus and Blaine. “That's all we fucking need.” He leaned against the railing. He buried his face in his hands. “No, that's not right. Focus, Storm! You
have
to tell them about Sasha. If we don't tell them about all of this, they'll just find out some other way and it'll look bad for everyone—the whole fucking family. Shit, shit, shit. Christ, they could think Maman did this.”
“Maman?” I stared at him. He had to be insane. I mean, sure, I guess there was a motive there—but Maman? I tried picturing it in my head. Maman was one of those old-school Southern ladies—white gloves, her hair always perfectly coiffed, shoes and accessories all perfectly matched, soft-spoken and gentle. It was next to impossible to picture her standing out in the rain with a rifle. “That's just crazy.”
“Scotty, Maman is a crack shot.” He gestured toward the crime-scene tape. “Shooting someone dead through a window? She could do it with one eye closed and a hand tied behind her back backward with a mirror and not even blink.”
“Maman?” I stared at him. “No fucking way.”
“Don't you ever pay attention at those interminable family gatherings?” He rolled his eyes. “I swear to God, if I have to fucking hear one more time about how her father used to take her shooting and hunting when she was a kid—Scotty, they used to go on safaris when she was growing up. She's hunted
lions
, for Christ's sake. Her and Papa Diderot used to take
their
kids shooting. Haven't you ever heard Mom bitch about how horrible it was that they killed wild animals all the time, and that's why she's a vegetarian? You can't tell me you've never heard
that
story. She tells it all the fucking time. It's practically a goddamned Thanksgiving tradition.”
“Um, I always kind of tune Mom out when she's talking about Maman and Papa.” It was true—I did. I'd heard the stories about how awful they were so many times that I stopped listening before I hit puberty, and pretty much erased them from my memory. The stories might have been different, but they always boiled down to the same theme: Maman and Papa were horrible, repressive capitalistic tools of the government who'd tried to brainwash their children into becoming card-carrying conservative Republicans like themselves. “But, of course,” Mom would say, throwing her hands up in the air, “they're my parents and Goddess help me, I love them.”
“Jesus, Scotty, Maman carries a
gun
now! A very ladylike pearl-handled revolver that will fit in any size purse. She never leaves the house without it, you know, in case someone tries to carjack her or mug her, she can blow a hole through him. She can also shoot a rifle, and, like I said, she's a dead shot.” His eyes began darting back and forth as his mind worked. “And the other one was shot Saturday night?”
“Yeah.” My head was spinning. The thought of my grandmother blowing someone away with the pistol she tucked neatly in her purse was something I couldn't quite wrap my head around.
“Shit. Pasha, Sasha, and Misha? Sounds like Donald Duck's nephews.” He shrugged. “Well, she couldn't have done that. I can alibi her for Pasha. We were all at the preparty before the Endymion Ball, and there's no way she could have slipped out of there in her evening gown, gotten down to the Quarter and shot someone, then slipped back in without being noticed.” He sighed. “Listen to me: I can alibi my grandmother. Those are words I never thought I'd have to say.” He threw back his head and barked out a laugh.
“So, what should I tell them?” I leaned against the railing. My headache was coming back with a vengeance.
“Well, you have to tell them there's three of them—or were, at any rate.” He puffed madly on his cigarette. “You know what? Leave the family stuff out of it. They might not ever find out about it and, hopefully, by the time they do, we'll know who was behind all of this.” He tossed his cigarette out into the grass. “And as soon as we can, we're heading over to Maman's and we're getting to the bottom of this.”

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