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Renee-Claire said, “So Beth’s death was an accident.”
“Of course. Slipped on the marble tiles of the shower.” Reggie’s smile turned a little harder.
“And your daughter, Lindsay, found her mother.” Renee-Claire had turned her attention fully to Hamilton. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” Reggie said, trying to take control.
But the host of the program zeroed in on Hamilton. So did the camera. “And what did you do? You were outside, yes?”
Hamilton nodded. “I heard Lindsay screaming, I ran into the house, assessed the situation, and tried to help Beth. Lindsay called nine-one-one.” He said it without any emotion, and as the camera panned away Kristi caught a glimpse of Reggie’s hand on her husband’s knee, her fingers tightening over the crease in his pant leg, adding pressure as if in silent warning.
What was going on here?
“And you lost your license when you were charged and convicted of homicide,” Renee-Claire said.
“That conviction was overturned,” Reggie snapped, her grin tight. “And, we came here to talk about the benefit at St. Ada’s,” she reminded the host.
“That you still support with your ex-husband. We asked him to appear today, but he declined.”
“You did what?” Reggie’s smile slid from her face. This wasn’t what she’d expected.
“You were still married to Aldo Lucerno when you represented Dr. Cooke in his appeal, isn’t that correct?”
“This has nothing to do with—” She caught herself, straightened her shoulders. “What is this? We came here to promote the benefit at the hospital, charity work for the good of St. Ada’s and the city, not to rehash our private lives nor discuss Hamilton’s career.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” the hostess said, backing off a bit. “It’s just that New Orleans has always been fascinated by your story. You and Aldo were—high school sweethearts?”
“College and that’s ancient history,” Reggie said crisply. “We were young. Foolish. And then, of course, I met Dr. Cooke.” She turned her eyes to her husband.
“Didn’t the true-crime book about Dr. Cooke,The God Complex and Murder,written by our next guest, New Orleans’s own Mistress of True Crime, Kristi Bentz, detail it all?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everything from the death of Bethany Cooke, to Dr. Cooke’s murder trial, and your taking on his appeal and falling in love.”
A light of understanding flared in Reggie’s eyes. “There was no murder,” she said crisply.
“No God complex, either,” Hamilton interjected.
“Good. Let’s discuss it in our next segment.”
Reggie’s face fell, but the camera cut to Renee-Claire, who handled the segue easily. “As I said, our next guest is the author of that book and several others, includingThe Rosary Killer, a book about a murderer who was presumed long dead and could, just could be stalking the streets of our fair city again. That’s right, author Kristi Bentz is here with us in the studio. She’s the daughter of Detective Rick Bentz of the New Orleans Police Department and she recently was a victim herself and is still recovering from an attack that tragically took the life of her husband, Jay McKnight. She’s here to talk about the attack, the airing of several movies made for television that were drawn from her books and, of course, aboutThe Rosary Killer,her best seller, which will be rereleased soon.
“That’s all coming up next after a short break, so stay right here.” The screen filled with the covers of both the books that the host had mentioned.
Oh. Dear. Lord.
The knot that had formed in Kristi’s gut grew just as the door opened and Jen, the production assistant, motioned to Kristi. “Let’s go.” To Tom, “You too. We’ve got chairs in the wings.”
“Oh—okay.” He nearly toppled his coffee as he roused, spilling a little on his crotch and not seeming to notice as he grabbed his sax.
“What about us?” Dana asked, stroking the cat.
“Next segment. Sit tight. I’ll come get you.” She cut Kristi a look that said all too clearly that Reggie had insisted Kristi be nowhere near her.
Jen led them through the doors to the studio with its soaring open ceilings, now unoccupied news desk, and two cameras positioned around a set decorated like a typical New Orleans living room. “You,” she said to the musician, “take one of those chairs.” She motioned to a row of folding chairs in the darkened area of the studio, then guided Kristi to one of the modern armchairs on the set.
Reggie and Hamilton Cooke were nowhere to be seen, but the host, Renee-Claire, was looking at an exit door and frowning. She spied Kristi, pinned a smile on her face, and said, “Hi, I’m Renee-Claire,” and shook Kristi’s hand. “Apparently Dr. and Mrs. Cooke had somewhere else to be.”
