The Dead Play On

“No one else around?”

He turned his gaze back to her. “Would you expect a murderer to hang around?”

“What I’m trying to figure out is how someone got him under control so they were able to stick the needle in his arm. There must have been an autopsy.”

“There was.”

“And there was nothing else in his system?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I’m trained to read a death certificate. There were some chemical names in there I didn’t recognize, but even if they were tranquilizers or something, the cops probably just thought he took them himself. And yes, he’d been drinking.”

The little bell over the shop door rang. A couple of young tourists came in, and Danni excused herself, walking over to ask them if they needed any help. They were looking for a specific line of jewelry, and she carried it. She was glad it was in a display case to one side of the store, not under the counter where Tyler was standing as if unaware of her customers, though he managed a smile when they came over to pay.

But as soon as they were gone, he asked, “Well, what do you think?”

What did she think?

She didn’t know what to think. She remembered Arnie. Like Tyler, he’d been a couple of years ahead of her in high school, but he’d played beautifully even then, and she could remember watching him play in the school band. He’d been a big guy, a solid, muscular six-two, at least.

And he’d had training when he joined the military. He couldn’t have been an easy mark.

But she did find it strange that, if Tyler was right, he would begin with drugs by heading straight for a needle.

“I don’t know what to think,” she said.

* * *

Lacey Cavanaugh was out of surgery. In her horror and anguish, she’d pitched down the steep front steps and smashed a kneecap. The doctor warned Quinn and Larue that she was still under heavy sedation—probably a double-edged good thing. She would otherwise be in tremendous pain over both the loss of her boyfriend and the wreck of her leg.

Quinn was standing closest to her head. She opened her eyes when he took her hand.

“Miss Cavanaugh,” Jake said, “we’re so sorry to bother you when I know you’re hurting in every possible way, but I’m afraid we need to talk to you. I’m Detective Larue, and this is my associate Michael Quinn. We have some questions we need to ask you, because as I’m sure you know, time is of the essence as we try to apprehend whoever’s guilty of your boyfriend’s...death. So if you could just think back, when was the last time you saw Mr. Barrett?”

Lacey stared at him from her haze, tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. Larry...”

Quinn squeezed her hand. “We’re so sorry,” he said softly. “We know you loved him, and that he was a good man.”

Larue stared at him; they didn’t really know that he’d been a good man.

But the words had the desired effect on Lacey. She looked at Quinn with such grief and gratitude in her eyes that he almost regretted being quite so gentle.

“He was the best,” she said softly.

“And we have to find out who killed him,” Quinn said. “You want him punished for what he did, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I last saw Larry...last night. I didn’t stay, because my little sister had a piano recital.”

“So last night at what time?” Quinn asked.

“Seven,” she said.

“And you didn’t go back to his house until this afternoon?” Larue asked.

She didn’t answer. She was staring at Quinn, still holding his hand as if it were a lifeline.

“Lacey, did you talk to him again after that?” Quinn asked.

She nodded.

“When was that?” Quinn asked.

“Last night—well, early this morning. Somewhere around three. He was playing last night at the Old Jackson Ale House. I called him at three because that’s about when he gets home.”

“And everything was fine?”

“Yes. We were both going to sleep. And I was supposed to go over to his house in the afternoon. Which I did. He didn’t answer the door. And then I looked in the window and I couldn’t really see...but it looked like...but I thought he’d be okay, you know?”

She began to sob softly.

She really had loved the man, Quinn thought.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “Lacey, can you think of anyone—from his past or maybe your own—who would have wanted to hurt him?”

Tears squeezed between her lashes. She shook her head.

“An ex-boyfriend?” Larue asked.

She opened her eyes and glared at him.

“Lacey,” Quinn said, “we have to ask.”

“No,” she said. “My ex married the girl he was cheating on me with—three years ago. We’re actually all on fairly friendly terms. And he’s in Detroit now, anyway, playing some backup gig there.”

“Thank you, Lacey. I hope you understand, we have to ask. What about the drugs?” Quinn said.

Once again tears streamed from her eyes, silent tears that just ran down her cheeks.

“We argued about the drugs,” she said softly. “I said the pot was fine, but the coke...we didn’t need the coke. He didn’t deal, if that’s what you’re getting at. He just shared with friends. He always shared everything with friends. He helped down-and-out musicians. You don’t understand, everyone liked him!”

“What about his ex-girlfriends? Any crazy ones?” Larue asked.

“Crazy ex-girlfriends?” Lacey repeated. “Pretty much all of them,” she said. “But mostly crazy in a good way. And none living in New Orleans. Suzanne Delmer is working on a cruise ship, and she’s crazy like a happy puppy. Before her it was Janis Bruge, and she’s out in LA now. This can’t have been anyone we know—it can’t have been. There’s just no reason.”

“Okay, so let me ask you something else. When you reached the house, did you see anyone around? Anyone at all?” Larue asked.

She shook her head, biting her lower lip. “There were some kids playing with a football in the street. A UPS truck down a block or so. It was just kind of a lazy afternoon. Typical,” she said.

More tears fell.