Watch Me Die (8 page)

“I wish I knew, Ms. Gallier. An impulse, maybe. He thought the glass was pretty, or your cross caught his eye so he grabbed it. Crazy people don’t need reasons. At least not ones that make sense to the rest of us.”

As the elevator doors whooshed shut, Spencer couldn’t help but recall what Bayle had said earlier about people doing crazy things for attention and his immediate negative reaction to it. Far-fetched was what he’d said. He wasn’t certain why, but he didn’t find it as out-there as before.

He went in search of his partner. When he had tried the Sisters of Mercy secretary earlier, she had been out of the office. He hoped Bayle had heard back from her.

He found Bayle at her desk, just ending a call. She grinned at him.

“Good news, partner. Preacher used to hang around Sisters of Mercy. He’d show up for mass some Sunday mornings, make folks a little nervous, but he was always respectful, just sort of slip in and out. But the last time he showed up for worship, he caused a ruckus.”

“How so?”

“Stood up during the homily and announced the end was near. He did everything but foam at the mouth, and finally they had to drag him out. Vicky said children were crying, the whole bit.”

He whistled. “Not a pretty picture.”

“Before they got him out the door, he shouted that same line he’d used on Gallier, about flesh being stripped from bones and eaten by demons.”

“Tasty.”

“Then he promised retaliation and called Father Girod a demon.”

“When did all this go down?”

“The Sunday before the murder.” She smiled again. “Just got off a call with the lab. Fingerprint tech got a beautiful set of prints from the candle holder—”

“Which we can compare to prints collected from our Mr. Preacher during a previous arrest.”

“Called the request in already.”

“I’m thinking this investigation is taking a turn for the better.”

“Me, too.” She leaned back in her chair, expression as satisfied as a cat’s. “Life is good.”

Life, it turned out twenty minutes later, wasn’t so great. The prints weren’t a match. Not even close.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friday, August 12

1:00
P.M.

Mira arrived back at the studio just as Deni’s beginning glass class was letting out. She watched the half dozen women exit, her thoughts on what Detective Malone had said about Preacher’s reasoning.

For some odd reason, it comforted her.

Mira supposed it did because that simple observation was held together with the same thread as “bad things happen to good people” and “good people sometimes do bad things.”

The exiting students were chattering about their creations and already looking forward to the intermediate class. Several of them waved at her, a couple called out a greeting.

Offering classes had been Deni’s idea. She’d designed the curriculum, advertised the classes and now taught them. They’d become so popular that Mira had decided to convert the storage shed out back to a teaching studio. She could hear Chris pounding on it now. Part of deciding the teaching studio made sense was knowing Chris was available to do the job.

She entered the studio. “Deni,” she called. “I’m back.”

“In here,” her assistant answered from the workroom. “Come see.”

Deni wasn’t alone. She and a man were standing in front of the Magdalene window.

Mira stopped short, recognizing him from the back, not believing her eyes. Jeff’s best friend, Connor Scott. “Connor? Is it really you?”

He turned. “Hi, Mira.”

With a squeal of delight, she ran to him and was enfolded in his arms. She hugged him tightly. “Where have you been?” she asked, tears trickling down her cheeks. “You just disappeared. No word to either of us.”

“I’m so sorry.” He released her, drew back and saw her tears. “Don’t cry.”

“Tears of happiness.” She wiped them away with the heels of her hands. “Where have you been?”

“Iraq. Then Afghanistan.”

She saw it then, the shadows in his blue eyes, the new furrows around them. He looked the same but a lifetime older as well. The way she must look to him. They had both lived that lifetime in the past six years.

She shook her head. “But I don’t understand. One day you were here, the next gone. Nothing. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I had some personal stuff going on and I didn’t know what to do. So I ran away. It was either join a circus or the marines.” His lips lifted slightly. “I thought the military might toughen me up.”

It had, she saw. Not just his body, which felt like steel against hers, but his spirit as well. Gone was the spoiled young man whose idea of hardship had been missing out on front-row tickets or having to choose between lobster or steak.

“This explains the buzz cut.” She stood on tiptoes and ran her hand over his flat top. “Grow out the back and you could have the makings for a world-class mullet. Sexy.”

He laughed, caught her hand and kissed it. “You always could make me laugh. Both of you could.”

Her smile died. “He’s gone. You know that, right?”

“I know.” He curled his fingers around her hand. “I should have been here for you. For both of you. I’m so, so sorry.”

He was. She saw the regret in his eyes. And secrets as well. Ones he didn’t want to share.

“Would you like a tour?” she asked, stepping away, slipping her hand from his.

He moved his gaze over the workroom, then brought it back to her. “I would.”

“The old studio was destroyed,” she said. “Everything in it.”

“I figured. When I heard about the Seventeenth Street canal, I didn’t think there was a chance the studio would have survived.” He crossed his arms. “Yet you stayed in New Orleans. Why? You could have gone anywhere.”

“I thought about leaving. But I couldn’t. All my memories, my memories with Jeff, are here. And the windows needed me.”

He cocked an eyebrow, clearly amused. “The windows needed you?”

“Katrina wrecked them. The city’s entire history in stained glass lay in ruins. You weren’t here. You didn’t see it.”

“We saw pictures. We—”

“That’s not the same. A picture can’t convey the”—she paused—“magnitude of the destruction. Its scope. Everywhere you looked, miles and miles of it.”

She crossed to the Magdalene window. “The windows were just a small piece of the destruction. But they were my piece.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I had the unique skill set necessary for their recovery. How could I abandon them?”

It was a rhetorical question, and he didn’t respond. Instead, he motioned around them. “You found a fitting place to work on them.”

She smiled. “I think so, too. Though it was by accident. My first requirement of the property was that it hadn’t flooded during the storm. That narrowed the search considerably. Uptown and the Garden District. The French Quarter and the Riverbend area, plus a few other pockets.”

She led him outside. Chris was on a ladder, nailing plywood to a newly framed overhang. “Deni’s classes have been so popular, we decided we needed a classroom. Once it’s complete, we’ll add some youth classes.”

Chris looked their way and she waved him over. “Come meet an old friend of mine,” she called.

He climbed down the ladder, grabbed a towel to wipe his face and neck, then ambled over. “Good to meet you,” he said. “I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, mine are a mess.”

Connor held out his. “It’s okay, man. Just got back from Afghanistan. A little sweat and dirt doesn’t scare me.”

They clasped hands. “Connor Scott.”

“Chris Johns. Good to meet you.”

Mira smiled at Chris. He continued to surprise her. He seemed wiser than his twenty-something years, more self-assured. Like he totally had his shit together. No wonder Deni liked him so much—she was the same way.

“How’s it going?” Mira asked.

“Right on schedule. Waiting on the electrical inspector.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so hot.”

Chris smiled. “Last I checked, you didn’t control the weather.”

“Wish I did.” She fanned herself. “However, I could have chosen a better time of year to do this.”

“I’m happy to have the work.”

“Stay hydrated,” Mira called.

He turned back and saluted. “Yes, ma’am!”

“Seems like a nice guy,” Connor said.

“He is. I feel really lucky to have him. Almost six years since Katrina and it’s still hard to find good workers.”

They finished the tour back in the workroom, in front of the Magdalene panel. Deni was working on a rose window from an Uptown mansion.

“Your assistant said this has been your pet project.”

“You could say that.” She jammed her hands into her front pockets, thinking of Dr. Jasper’s theory. “It’s pretty much consumed me for the past year.”

“I want to hear all about it.” He held her gaze. “And everything else.”

“Seems we both have a lot to share.”

His expression grew solemn. “I’ll explain everything. But not now. Not here. How about tonight?”

“Perfect.”

“Are you still in the house on Frenchmen Street?”

“I am.”

“You supply the wine, I’ll bring the food. You still addicted to the Cuban sandwiches from Fefa’s?”

“They’re gone. Since the storm, a lot of places are. But I’m not a picky eater anymore.”

One corner of his mouth lifted in the lopsided grin she remembered from the old days. “I see that. You’re about to blow away.”

She laughed. “Haven’t been hungry in five years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Say that again and the dinner’s off.”

“Never again, then.” They fell silent. His gaze didn’t waver from hers. “God, I’ve missed you and—” He bit the last back, but it hung in the air between them.

Jeff.

He and Jeff had been prep school roommates, university fraternity brothers; Connor had been Jeff’s best man at their wedding. After the wedding, the three of them had been the best of friends. Many a night they had sat around her and Jeff’s kitchen table with a bottle of wine, talking and carrying on until the wee hours.

She cherished those memories.

“I’m really glad you’re back,” she said.

“Me, too.” He looked away, then met her eyes once more. “See you tonight. Six?”

“Thirty.”

A catch in her chest, Mira walked him to the door, then watched until he drove off.

Deni was over in a flash. “
Who
was that?” she asked. “You know what I mean.”

“I told you, an old friend I haven’t seen since before the storm.”

“An old boyfriend?”

“No. A friend of Jeff’s. That’s how we met. The three of us spent a lot of time together.”

Deni looked disappointed. “I was thinking he had a crush on you.”

Mira laughed. “Hardly. We’re like brother and sister.”

“Too bad. He’s cute.”

“That he is. And nice, too.”

“So maybe y’all could move past the brother-sister thing and try a romantic—”

Mira didn’t let her finish. “He was a friend of Jeff’s.”

“And yours. Who better to fall in love with?”

“Drop it, Deni.” It came out sharper than she’d intended and her friend looked hurt. Mira lightly touched Deni’s arm. “Sorry. I’m not ready. Not nearly.”

“I understand. It’s just—” Deni hesitated, then pressed on. “It’s been almost six years, sweetie.”

“I know. But I…” She struggled for the right words. “The truth is, Deni, fifty years might not be enough.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Friday, August 12

6:30
P.M.

The house on Frenchmen Street had been in Jeff’s family since the mid-1900s. Located where Frenchmen met Esplanade Avenue, a stone’s throw from the Mississippi River, it was as close to being a French Quarter property as possible without being one.

The Marigny neighborhood had been developed in the first decade of the nineteenth century by a Creole millionaire of the same name. The architecture reflected both its history and French lineage. Mira’s home, a perfectly preserved Creole town house, consisted of three stories with a central courtyard and wrought-iron balconies.

It’d been left to Jeff by his maternal grandmother. Although the Gallier family had tried to wrest it away from Mira after Jeff’s death, she had fought to keep it.

She hadn’t cared about its astronomical market value, because she never planned to sell. It had been her and Jeff’s home, the only one they had shared in their five years of marriage.

The place came with other history as well. Supposedly, Marie Laveau, the famous voodoo queen, had been an “adviser” to the first lady of the house and a frequent visitor. In addition, the original owner had been in on the scheme hatched by New Orleans mayor and Napoleon sympathizer Nicholas Girod to rescue the exiled emperor from Elba and install him in what was now the French Quarter’s Napoleon House restaurant. Jeff used to say that the pirate Jean Lafitte, an integral part of the plot, had once slept in the back bedroom.

It had all seemed very romantic at first, now it was just … home.

Connor arrived at six thirty sharp. He brought po’boy sandwiches and lilies. “I remembered how much you loved them,” he said, handing her the flowers.

“Thank you.” Mira buried her nose in the fragrant blossoms, breathed deeply, then lifted her gaze to his. “Nobody’s brought me flowers in a long time.”

“I’m glad I’m the one who remedied that. May I?”

“Of course.” She stepped aside so he could enter. “Please tell me that’s a bag from Mother’s.”

“Is there anywhere else to get a debris po’boy in New Orleans?”

She smiled. “Not one that tastes like this.”

“I dreamed about these in Iraq. And about being here. With you and Jeff.”

Sudden tears stung her eyes. “I guess two out of three isn’t bad.”

He caught her hand, squeezed her fingers, then released them. “The house looks no worse for wear.”

“It came through the storm unscathed. We were lucky.”

She heard the edge in her voice and wondered if a time would come when she didn’t.

They walked to the kitchen, with its old brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the lush courtyard, and sat at the hundred-year-old butcher-block table.