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“That tall woman—I’ve seen her before.” Dana was still staring at the open door while petting her cat. “And the man? A doctor . . . Oh, wait!” The light dawned. “I remember. He killed his wife years ago. Went to jail, and that woman”—she pointed to the door—“she was his attorney. Threw over her husband for him, right? And the husband, he . . . oh, Lord, what was . . . that’s right.” She looked up, her face alight with discovery. “He’s the one they call the Oyster King. Allen Something-Or-Other.”
“Aldo Lucerno,” Kristi said automatically.
“Yes! Yes! Right! Oh, my God, now I remember. He was angry. Didn’t want the divorce. Oh, my! Didn’t he swear to kill the doctor or something?” Her doe eyes rounded even further.
Aldo had made many threats, all loud and public. “Or something,” Kristi agreed, remembering. While researching the book she’d spoken to Aldo at his business office and he’d been more contained, his anger still seething, but controlled, evidenced only in the flush on his swarthy complexion or a tiny spark in his dark eyes, or the slightest tightening in the corner of his mouth. By that time, Reggie had threatened to sue him for a raft of crimes ranging from tax fraud to domestic battery, and Aldo had clamped down on his verbal attacks.
Dana made tsking sounds. “I always wondered about her. Leaving a prominent businessman for a man accused and convicted, mind you, of killing his wife. What could she have been thinking?”
“Maybe that he was innocent.”
“No, no, there’s more to it than that,” Dana said, still thoughtfully petting the gray cat. “I think she liked the spectacle of it all. Even the fact that he murdered his wife.” Dana was shaking her head. She gave a little shiver. “Can you imagine?”
Unfortunately, Kristi could. She’d witnessed Reggie’s temper and flair for the dramatic in the courtroom when she was defending her current husband and she’d seen Reggie play to the cameras when giving a press statement about the case, so yes, there was that. Also, Kristi had observed how hard and determined Hamilton could be as he’d sat stoically in the courtroom, not flinching at the sight of his first wife’s bloody body when pictures of her lifeless form had been shown to the jury. While their daughter Lindsay had been shuffled from the courtroom before the pictures had been displayed, Hamilton had barely glanced at them, as if in being a doctor, dealing with life and death on a daily basis, he’d become inured to a lifeless body—even his own wife’s.
No, it wasn’t difficult for her to imagine him killing his wife, Bethany, with the same steely sense of purpose with which he wielded a surgeon’s scalpel.
“I wonder who will get their segment,” Dana said pensively.
“What?” Kristi was jarred from her musings about Hamilton Cooke to the green room and the cat woman.
“Well, if Dr. and Mrs. Cooke aren’t going to agree to be interviewed, then who will fill in for them?”
When Kristi didn’t respond, Dana continued. “Well,Bonjour, New Orleans!will need someone to interview. They’re not going to have Renee-Claire up there alone, now will they? That would be a disaster.” Her face was a mask of innocence when she said, “I can do it. I mean, if you don’t want to. I can always find something to discuss. Mr. Precious here, is not the only cat I can talk about.” She stroked the gray cat tenderly. “Princess Penelope and Ebony and Champagnie are in the car with my husband. I could bring them out. People love to see the difference in the different breeds, you know, and they all have such different personalities. I have a cute story about Ebony. . . .” She rambled on about cats and Kristi tuned out, not believing for a second that the station would expand the feline segment that was airing due to the cat show that was convening this weekend. Instead Kristi was wondering about Reggie Lucerno Cooke and why she’d been set to appear on the very same day. That had to have been planned. “. . . black cats because of the season as it’s almost Halloween, you know. And Ebony issogood on television, a natural, if you know what I mean.” She was nodding, a smile playing upon her lips. “I have a cute story about her. . . .” Kristi managed a nod and a smile though she couldn’t give two cents about any of the felines this woman found so fascinating.
Fortunately, before Dana could launch into more oh-so-fascinating anecdotes about her cats, the producer’s assistant returned. Flushed faced, she apologized. “I know this is highly irregular,” she said, then cast a disparaging glance through the door to the maze of hallways beyond. “But Mrs. Cooke, though she agreed to do the segment, is refusing to wait here in the green room, so we’ve shuffled things around and Dr. and Mrs. Cooke will be interviewed in the first segment.” She glanced from a clipboard to Kristi. “You’re next—as planned—and then, if Mr. Bigelow doesn’t arrive, there will be a segment that’s been prerecorded about the renovations to the riverboats and the final segment will be you.” She nodded at Dana Metcalf. “For the cat expo this weekend. We’ll wrap up with that.” She glanced up. “Renee-Claire and my producer have already approved the changes and we’re set to roll. Okay with you all?”
“Yes, of course,” Cat Woman said. “But if you need anyone to fill in more time, I’ve got three lovely cats—one of them a prizewinner in the SFC—Southland Feline Competition—available. They’re all in the car with my husband. He could bring them in. I thought the viewers would like—”
“This one’s fine,” the assistant said, pointing with her pen at Mr. Precious. “One cat.”
“I know, but—”
“Just one. Her.”
Dana said quickly, “Mr. Precious is a he.”
“Fine. Him then. I’ll be back to take you to the set at the breaks.” Jen glanced at the clock on the wall. “God, where is Tom Bigelow?” She was texting furiously on her phone again as she exited, the door shutting behind her.
“Well.” Dana let out a little huff and pursed her lips. “Okay, I guess,” then to Kristi, “Mr. Precious can’t handle all this stress. He’s a real professional, though I have to be careful with him, you know.”
Kristi didn’t.
Nor did she care.
The cat hadn’t moved an inch on his pillow and seemed content to stare at Kristi with wide green eyes.
“He’s a champion breeder—oh, my God—so good. The queens? The female cats? They adore him. He’sverypopular.” She was nodding and ran a finger along the fringe of the satin pillow. “And this? We call it his throne.” She actually tittered. “It’s chilled.” Nodding, she added, “Uh-huh. To protect his, you know, privates, to keep him in good shape. For the ladies.”
Okay. TMI. Why were they even having this conversation? Kristi wondered if the woman was putting her on or just a bona fide kook. Either way, she wasn’t interested in Mr. Precious’s love life and quickly turned her attention to her phone to end the conversation. Like right now!
Get me out of here,she thought just as the assistant brought in Tom Bigelow, the missing jazz musician who looked like he’d just rolled out of bed or was still up from a gig the night before. As the assistant tried and failed not to look perturbed, he landed on the far end of the couch while clutching a black instrument case. His eyes were bleary, his hair sticking up at all angles, and he was dressed head to foot in black—jeans, ratty T-shirt, boots, and jacket, all at odds with his wan sleep-deprived complexion. He snapped the case open and withdrew a gleaming saxophone, as pristine as he was grungy.
Eyeing him, Dana scooted a little further away and put a protective arm between her adored cat with his cooled “privates” and the dull-eyed musician.
It all seemed bizarre and all Kristi wanted to do was get it over with.
As soon as possible.
