Brigitte's Cross (The Olivia Chronicles) Page 2

  The crowd was pretty mixed; Robert’s dad was a physician who also advised pre-med students at UNO. His mother did most of their social planning and she made it her mission to stay connected to the university crowd while also keeping up with the old money. They were both old New Orleans money, and that was how they knew Christophe’s grandmother and his sister, Vivienne. He’d driven the two women to the party and had already taken their grandmother home. He considered his designated driver status over for the night. Vivienne could drive home, as she never got too far in her cups to drive. She was over in one corner, talking to some graduate student. He could tell the student was looking for more than discourse on voodoo, but he imagined his sister would not recognize the lust in the girl’s eyes. She had other more pressing matters to worry about than young twenty-something girls with the hots for her. He gave a wish that she would put those thoughts aside for at least tonight and have some fun. In his mind, he toasted them as he took a sip off his fresh drink.

  He continued to look for the mysterious woman in the tuxedo as he made the rounds. He didn’t find her until he’d emptied his drink and had to get a fresh one. He kept getting stopped and chatted up by other party-goers. With fresh drink in hand, he started a new search, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sound of the piano.

  The song was one he’d never heard anywhere but in his dreams. He anticipated every sad note, every stroke of the fingers on the keys. It was as if someone were sliding their hands up his back, embracing him, drawing him in close for a kiss. He could feel the goose bumps forming where the phantom fingers trailed, felt himself growing hard.

  He made his way to the piano. It was her, of course, the one he’d been looking for. He watched her play, her eyes closed as her fingers caressed the sound from the shining, glossy instrument. No one else seemed to notice. They were still drinking and chatting as if this most wonderful sound, this song, weren’t drowning out the world. He couldn’t hear anything but the piano, couldn’t really see anything but her face, smooth despite the concentration. She made playing seem effortless, instinctual.

  When the song was over, she lifted her hands from the keyboard and opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, as if she knew he would be standing there. She gave him a wider smile this time, and shifted to playing a jazzy version of “Aud Lang Syne”. He sat next to her on the bench, laughing. “It’s not midnight yet; you’re early.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “Yes, but if I play it now, I do not have to feel obligated to stop whatever it is I’m doing at midnight to play it.” He was fascinated by her hands as they moved across the keys, and he could smell her perfume, a faint whiff of gardenias, as she played. His head swam from sitting so close to her, and he wondered it if was her or the booze. He was only on his second round since taking his grandmother home, but the bartender was pouring freely.

  She finished the song and took the drink from his hand, taking a sip. “Mmm. The bartender makes a good Manhattan. Why don’t we both go over and get a refill?”

  Once they had drinks in hand, they sank into one of the sofas. He stuck his hand out, not knowing what else to do. “I’m Christophe Garnier.”

  She smiled again before taking his hand in hers. “Olivia Holmwood. Glad to make your acquaintance.”

  “How do you know Dr. Abellard and his wife?”

  She sipped from her drink. “I know his wife through a mutual friend. Really, we’re just distant acquaintances. I am in town doing some book press, and she invited me.”

  “Book press? How exciting. What’s the book?”

  “Oh, just boring academic stuff, really. I have always been interested in Bram Stoker’s work, and have a collection of essays that just came out. I edited it, and I also have a piece in it, as well as having written the introduction.” She watched his face, reading him. “It’s all dreadfully academic, I’m afraid.”

  He shook his head, “No, don’t apologize. My sister is as academic as they get. It’s something I should really consider. I was just talking to our host’s son when you showed up. I’m considering going back to school myself.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful. What will you study?”

  “That’s just it; I’m not really sure. I come from an old enough family where I really don’t have to define myself unless I want to. The men in my family have always been in the background, I guess. Vivienne was lucky in that she took a great interest in history and religion early enough that she found a path to study.” He took a pause and sipped his drink. “Anyway, I am at a stage in my life where I want what I do to matter. I want to feel like I have value beyond what I can do for the family. I’m just not sure what that means for me.” He drained his glass. “I feel like I’m too old to go back.”

  “Nonsense.” She smiled. “Just how old are you? You look very young to me.”

  “Ah, good genes, I guess. I’m 26. I certainly feel old. I haven’t done anything significant.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry; I guess the New Years resolution bug bit me.”

  They continued talking, him fetching them both refills. By the end of the evening, she had convinced him to consider auditing some courses. “After all, no education is a waste and auditing lets you figure out what you might like to pursue.”

  As they sat, Vivienne and her companion came over to say good night. He looked at his watch, and it was not yet midnight. “I am going to take Ai home, Christophe.” Perhaps his wish had come true after all. He hoped for his sister’s sake it had, at least. “No problem, Sis. I’m sure I can find my way home.”

  At midnight, Christophe and Olivia were still there, talking and laughing. It was she who leaned in and planted a midnight kiss on his mouth as he was mid-sentence. She tasted sweet, nothing at all like the sourness he expected from the rye. Her mouth was slightly cold from the drink, though, and he sat for a bit afterward, stunned. “I hope you don’t think that was too forward.”

  “Not at all.” He was unsure of how to proceed. “I think I’m going to go smoke a cigarette. Would you care to join me?”

  Once outside, he felt he could think a bit better. He lit a cigarette for each of them. As he passed one to her, he said, “I’d love to see you again.”

  She grabbed his hand and pulled him around the side of the house, kissing him again. She was strong despite her slight size. She pressed him up against the house, kissing him hard on the mouth. He wanted control, but felt it was important to let her take the lead. As she pulled back, he resisted the urge to pull her back to him. She kissed him sweetly on the neck, whispering to him. “You’ll see me again. I promise.” He felt weak in the knees and when he opened his eyes, she was gone.

  He did see her again, later that night, in his dreams. The strains of the song she’d played haunted him in his dreams, followed by her hands and mouth on him, like the touch of a ghost.

  He called Robert’s mother in hopes of finding out more about her, and he discovered she was still in town, consulting with someone in the literature department in the next few days before going home. She also told him where she was staying.

  He waited for her by sitting in the bar of her hotel. She walked in and sat down next to him as if she knew he would be there.

  “Are you following me, Mr. Garnier?” She nodded to the bartender, and he brought her a drink without even asking what she wanted.

  He smiled at her and motioned for a refill. “I am, apparently. I couldn’t stay away. That song you played the other night. . . Where is it from?”

  “It’s my own composition. I’ve studied some over the years, and sometimes I improvise. Did you like it?”

  “Very much so. I swear I’d heard it before. Perhaps I’ve heard similar songs.”

  “Mmmm. Perhaps. I’m glad you liked it.” She sat silently for a bit. “You’re still considering auditing some courses?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I’ve got to do something. As I told you the other night, I spend most of my time taking care of my sister and grandmother. It’s been long enough since my mo
ther’s death. I need to move on and figure out who I am.”

  “I think I can help you with that. But, only if you’re sure you want help.”

  “I do.” He had hoped that she would simply take him to her room. Instead, they took a walk. She was staying at Le Richelieu, an old hotel near the Marigny. As they walked and smoked he wondered why he hadn’t just left her when she didn’t invite him up. All he knew was that he would go anywhere with her. Of course, he was used to making sure that women in his life were taken care of, regardless of his wants.

  He felt in a trance around her. And he found himself incapable of denying her any information she asked about. For her part, though, she did not indicate much about herself other than her professional experience. She mainly listened. They sat in Washington Square Park; he leaned in for a kiss. And she stopped him. She held his face in her hands, staring deep into his eyes. He could feel his heart racing, could see deep into her silver eyes. He could hear the song again, playing as clearly and loudly as it had at the party. He felt himself falling, as if in a dream. He waited to hit the ground, the jolt that would wake him up, but instead he only felt the pressure of her mouth on his neck as the music continued to play. He woke up on the park bench hours later as the sun started rising and the fog began to burn off. She was gone, but he somehow knew he would see her again.

  It was a hard two months of waiting, but he had much to discover about his new identity in the meantime. He managed alright, at least surviving, but when she’d come back to him a month later with her plan and offer to teach him how to do more than survive—to teach him how to thrive—in return for one favor, he was more than ready to do her bidding.

  That was how he came to kill Tim Clark.

  Chapter Three

  MURDER IN MARIGNY

  October 17, 2012

  Police were called to a residence near Washington Square Park last night, after a 911 call reported a murder of one of the residents.

  They apprehended one Wren Anderson at the scene, and she has been taken in for questioning. The name of the victim is being withheld until all family can be notified.

  Obituary: Alexandria (Alex) James, 27

  A memorial service for Alexandria James, formerly of New Iberia, will be held at Our Lady of Guadalupe Chapel at 411 N. Rampart Street, on Friday, October 26th, at 2:00 pm.

  Alexandria was taken from us too soon. A devoted daughter and loving partner, she was also a talented student pursuing a graduate degree in literature at the University of New Orleans.

  Ms. James is survived by her father, Robert James and his wife Lila James of New Iberia, and by Elizabeth Camp, her partner, of Hattiesburg and New Orleans. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you donate to the Alexandria James’ Scholarship Fund at UNO or to the charity of your choice.

  WREN ANDERSON ARRAIGNED

  October 19, 2012

  Wren Anderson, 29, of New Orleans was formally arraigned on first-degree murder charges today. She pleaded not guilty to the brutal slaying of her former girlfriend, Alexandria James.

  Ms. James was murdered on October 17, 2012, and Ms. Anderson was on the scene when the police responded to a 911 call from the residents of the home.

  Jan Solaris, the public defender representing Anderson refused to comment on the case. Anderson is being held without bail.

  October 2012: Orleans Parish Jail

  Wren Anderson was kept in isolation in Orleans parish jail after her arraignment and while she awaited trial. At first, she was a model prisoner and a quiet one. She showed remorse and deep sorrow for her actions, and she was placed on suicide watch as a routine precaution. Within a week, cracks started showing in her stability, in part because of the isolation. She was kept heavily medicated and soon was so medicated that she couldn’t interact with even her attorney. If they cut back on her medication, she was too violent and unpredictable to communicate.

  When she got to that stage, no one came to visit her. Her court-appointed attorney avoided her as much as possible and made clear that the jail was to call her if and when her client seemed able to talk.

  Wren did talk, though, even though she had no contact with anyone outside of her cell. Guards assumed she was talking to herself sometimes at night, but Olivia was there—they just couldn’t see her. Wren could feel her presence, though, and spent hours babbling at her.

  “Did it for you. Did it for you. All for you. I’d do it again. Let me show you. I can get her for you. Whatever you want me to do. I’ll never tell. Never tell.” At other times, she cried, making heart-wrenching screams and sobbing hysterically. By daybreak, she typically wore herself out and slept as much as she could, despite guards pestering her.

  Everyone who heard her muttering assumed she was insane. She refused to eat much of the time and grew thinner.

  Chapter Four

  October 30, 2012

  Dear Kirby, (who uses “dear” anymore? Who even writes letters on paper, for that matter?)

  Let’s try this again.

  Dear Kirby,

  I am writing to you because everyone here keeps encouraging me to write down my feelings and keep a journal. If you think the start of this letter is lame, trust me when I say it is far better than my feeble attempts to write a journal.

  Part of the problem is that I am still numb, but another issue is that I don’t really feel authentic if I’m not writing “to” someone. I thought about emailing, but that doesn’t do it for me either. Pen on paper is somehow more me than fingers on the keyboard. I’ll do my best not to just draw little reproductions of “The Scream” all over my paper, although that’s kind of how I feel—like my mouth is gaping open and no sound is coming out.

  That’s how I felt when it happened, too. When I walked in and saw Alex and all that blood, I didn’t—couldn’t—scream. It was like all the air was sucked out of my body. My mouth was open, and I could hear in my head a horrible sound, but nothing came out of my mouth.

  Aren’t you the lucky one to be my choice to correspond with?

  Leaving New Orleans was hard, Kirby. I feel like I ran away, but I know that it is better for me to be gone while things settle down. I know that it’s only been a few days, but I still stand by my request that you keep things as they were. Don’t you and Mike go all bonkers redecorating or anything. I may change my mind when I get back, but for now, losing the space we shared would be like losing her all over again. I want to know her clothes and other things are there waiting for me. It might sound morbid, but it is what it is.

  Dad’s been great about keeping me from completely obsessing about things. Mainly he’s put me to work on cleaning up his office at the house and going through some of the things here, helping him purge. He’s also asked me to pull some research for him for a book he’s been working on. I don’t really feel qualified, but mainly he just hands me lists of things and sends me to make copies and what not. Mike would really enjoy it, I suspect, as they focus on some of the same stuff.

  We’re leaving our porch lights off tomorrow. I can’t bear to think about Halloween.

  So, let me know if you’ll be my pen pal until I get home. I know you loved Alex as much as I did and if it’s not too hard, maybe we can help each other out.

  Love,

  Liz

  November 5, 2012

  Dear lovely Liz,

  You know that I’m happy to be your pen pal. I hope you haven’t been waiting on my letter to keep writing, but knowing you, you probably have.

  The house is really empty without you and Alex. Mike spends much of his time over here when he’s not at school, but often he’s working on the dissertation, so it gets boring without my two favorite girls here. I sometimes lie in bed and listen to the ceiling fan in the dark, pretending it’s you and Alex having a conversation in bed, giggling and talking like two little girls on a sleep over. I miss that sound, Liz. I know you miss it too.

  Per your request, we have only hired a crew in to clean. I have started some packing up of things, th
ough, and am doing my best to label boxes clearly. I won’t throw anything out, and I certainly won’t let Lila have anything while you’re gone. I can’t believe that after the years of ignoring Alex that she had the nerve to try to take anything with her after the memorial service. I told her that once things are settled, you might pick out some copies of pictures to send to Robert. I stressed the maybe and that they would be for him, not for her. In fact, on my list of things to do as we clean house is to make sure all of the pictures are scanned. I guess that could be a good Christmas present to them and all of us.

  There’s not much else to report here; I’m lonely and sad without you, but know you need a break and your dad wants to take care of you for awhile.

  Let him.

  Love, Kirby

  November 10, 2012

  Dear Kirby,

  I’m glad you are ok being my grief pen pal. I like writing to you, and I suspected you’d say you want me to. I also know how much you love to get mail.

  Really, though, I realize now why everyone suggested I write about it. When I read your letter, it was easier than talking about it in person somehow. Dad and I talk sometimes, but we wind up focusing on other things because it’s just too much to talk about, I guess. I think the whole thing hits him in several ways; he is grieving Alex, but he’s grieving for me and also reliving the loss of Mom, too.