Mardi Gras Murders

By Robert Daines

When Mark Bell and Kendall Erickson travel to New Orleans for a romantic weekend, almost everything goes according to their plans. That is, until Kendall looks away for just a moment, and when she turns around, Mark is gone! Feeling panicked and abandoned, Kendall seeks the help of the police, but discovers they are not able to help because of red tape. Her worst nightmare is just beginning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Daines
• Release date: Sep 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9780964505513

Robert Daines

Nicole and Robert Daines are the co-authors of novels, mysteries and inspirational books. They live in Southern California and are the parents of three adult children and eight grandchildren. Their lectures have entertained and inspired audiences across the U.S. and Canada.

Book preview

A Mystery by

NICOLE & ROBERT DAINES

HEART TO HEART PUBLISHING

www.NicoleAndRobertDaines.com

Mardi Gras Murders

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

Published by Heart to Heart Publishing

P.O. Box 2606

Temecula, CA 92593

Smashwords Edition – 110906

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2009 by

Nicole Daines and Robert Daines

All rights reserved under International and

Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the authors.

Cover Photo & Design: Nicole Daines

Ebook ISBN 978-0-9645055-1-3

Paperback ISDN 978-0-9645055-8-2

While names of actual historical figures have been included to frame the narrative, all other characters and events are the product of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. The 82-year-old character, Sgt. Charlie Leonard, is not based upon the late New Orleans Police Officer, Sgt. Manuel Curry who died in June of 2009 at the age of 84.

DEDICATION

In Memory of

Antoinette K-Doe

1943 - Feb. 24, 2009

Antoinette K-Doe’s openhearted love and generosity live on in those whose lives she touched. Her life exemplifies the words of Bob Dylan that are painted on the outside walls of her New

Orleans lounge:

Try imagining a place where it’s always safe and warm.

"Come in, she said, I’ll give you shelter from the storm."

New Orleans

French Quarter & Tremé

Contents

Title PageMARDI GRAS MURDERS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Bibliography

When We Miss New Orleans

Poem: Prevail by Nicole Gibeaut

Preview – The Antique Diary

About the Authors

Chapter 1

Saturday, February 21, 2009, 4:00 p.m.

Mark Bell had no idea that the most wonderful day of his life would end up being his very worst.

At 4:00 p.m., the only thing on his mind was what his girlfriend’s answer would be…yes, or no? His guts were clenched in anxiety—his future depended on which one. Maybe he should wait until another time. But what moment could possibly be more perfect than this one?

He tried to relax. But failed. At 24, he was too young to be so brittlely-cautious. As was often pointed out to him (too often for his own comfort), he had no excuse for failure. Mark had everything going for him. He was an all-American cliché—tall-dark-and-handsome, with chiseled good looks and a winning smile. Adding to these positive attributes was the fact that he was—as his roommate, Antonio, often said—Free, White and over 21. Dios Mio, I’d give anything to have your advantages. Grow some cajones, dude…with your college degree, you got the whole world at your feet. No excuses! Nada!

Then why did things never seem to go right for him? Mark had always felt cursed.

Dammit, stop the negative self-talk. You’re not backing out of this!

As with most of his actions during the past four and a-half years, Mark had carefully planned for this occasion. Word-for-word carefully. Obviously this was the perfect time and this beautiful park in New Orleans was the ideal spot.

Mark gazed around at Jackson Square, bursting with colorful spring blossoms and bustling with Mardi Gras tourists. The postcard-perfect park is the size of a city block. Three sides are bordered by European-style buildings, and the fourth looks out upon an elevated park on the levee across the street.

Dominating the square and rising high above the other buildings is the white, 18th Century St. Louis Cathedral. The grand structure looks more like a French castle than a house of worship. The Cathedral is centered between two identical 18th Century, French-style buildings. Flanking on two sides of the square and facing each other are identical four-story, block-long brick buildings, decorated with lacy, black ironwork on their long balconies and galleries. Offices, shops and restaurants occupy the street level of the buildings; the top three floors are luxury apartments. Tourist guides inform visitors that these are the oldest continually-occupied apartment buildings in the United States.

Jackson Square Park is enclosed by five-foot-tall, iron fences. During daylight hours, three grand gates are opened wide and beckon visitors to come on in, sit a spell, and enjoy the beauty. The streets on three sides of the park are barricaded to traffic, making the beautiful space a people-friendly, outdoor living room of the French Quarter.

Mark inhaled a deep breath and savored the sensually-humid air, heavy with the fragrance of jasmine and Creole cooking. His spirits were buoyed by the happy calliope music coming from the riverboat Natchez, currently boarding passengers for a harbor cruise on the Mighty Mississippi. He sang along to Oh What a Beautiful Morning—almost on tune. The romantic setting should have given him courage. But it didn’t.

Forcing a brave smile, Mark squeezed his girlfriend’s hand as they sauntered along the manicured park walkways. Kendall Erickson’s athletic body moved with assured grace. Her face reminded him of the actress Reese Witherspoon—the same cute pixie-face with pointed chin, twinkling blue eyes, and happy, toothpaste-bright smile. Kendall’s long blond hair blew in the gentle wind. Unfortunately, when Mark had mentioned the resemblance to his roommate, he had not appreciated Antonio’s response. "Sadly, my man, I agree. Kendall acts just like that chick in ‘Legally Blond.’ What an airhead!"

But his roommate was wrong—acting like a ditsy blond was just a cover-up. Kendall Erickson was the exact opposite of an airhead, only using that fake persona when she felt threatened and unsafe. Mark knew she was a wounded soul, and her pretense of being shallow was only a defense against the darkness of the world. He was attracted by her vulnerability, wanting to protect and cherish her for the rest of his life.

Mark gazed down at Kendall, smiling with more confidence than he felt. If only his inner reality matched the competent exterior that he presented to the world.

Mark and Kendall looked good together—a tall, muscular, dark-haired man paired with a short, cute blond. As usual, they were dressed casually in well-worn jeans and T-shirts. Kendall’s shirt was black and sexy, stretched tightly across her prominent breasts—the letters UCLA undulating over the hills and valleys. Mark’s faded gold T-shirt proclaimed the Lakers 2001 NBA Championship. At twenty-four, Mark was only three years older than Kendall, but he felt much older…definitely frayed and worn-out around the edges. As his mother often commented, My son was born an old soul.

He took a deep breath. This is it, big guy. Go for it! Mark felt nauseous—what if Kendall’s answer was no? His mouth was filled with sawdust—anxiety drying-up all his saliva. And as he tried to swallow, his throat suddenly constricted in spasms, causing uncontrollable, convulsive coughing. He was unable to speak. Crap! Thought I’d outgrown the damn asthma. It’s been years since I’ve had an attack. Perfect timing!

As he coughed and hacked and wheezed and gasped—face red and eyes leaking tears—Kendall was worried he was having a fit of some kind. One minute they had been walking along, sipping alcohol from their go-cups and savoring the beauty of the 70-degree afternoon. And the next moment he was doubled-over, coughing up his lungs and choking out incomprehensible sounds.

Oh, my God, Markie! Should I try a Heimlich? Did you swallow wrong?

He shook his head no. Struggling to stop coughing, he waved aside her offer to help.

She motioned to a park bench. Sit down and I’ll go get some water.

He croaked out, No…wait. Sinking down on the black iron bench, Mark patted his hand on the seat beside him.

Kendall sat down next to him and gently rubbed his back, speaking soothingly. Try to relax your throat, honey. Let’s just sit here for awhile until it stops. Hey, you know what? When my Grandma used to get these kind of attacks, she pressed her fingers right on that little sort of indentation at the base of her neck, and applied pressure ‘til the spasms stop.

Terrific! Just what I wanted—to remind her of her Granny.

Mark tried forcing out some words. Being compared to your Gran— And then he started coughing, again, unable to stop.

Up until this embarrassing coughing fit, their day had gone exactly as he had planned—a veritable tourist’s montage of New Orleans sites: a light breakfast at Café du Monde; a guided walking tour of the French Quarter: lunch at Brennan’s; checking into the Monteleone Hotel in the afternoon; making wild, passionate love; and now ending with this romantic stroll around the walkways of Jackson Square park.

As usual, when things didn’t work out as Mark had planned, he plunged down into the Valley of Incompetency where the shadow of his father haunted his life. Mark had never met his biological father—but for as long as he could remember, his Mother had denigrated the man’s memory and warned Mark not to grow up to be like him, A worthless, treasonous, lyin’ piece of shit. Mark’s Mom was seldom at a loss for words.

In spite of—or perhaps because of—his Mother’s warnings, Mark had always wanted to meet his Father. For years he had been searching for the man who had abandoned his family, but all of his searches had come up empty. He vowed that he wouldn’t stop searching until he found his father—a handsome blond-haired man he had only seen in photos…a man who his mother had told Mark he looked just like—except for the hair. You sure do have your Daddy’s dreamy green eyes. He was quite the ladies man. Just ask any of my former girl friends!

Mark now took a deep breath and tried to relax his throat. He felt the constriction lessen its grip. I’ll give it another try.

Clearing his throat hard, he checked to see if he could talk. Kendall?

What is it, honey?

In what he hoped was a graceful maneuver, he slid down from the bench, onto one knee in front of her. Taking her hand in his, he noticed that her mouth had dropped open.

His lips trembled as he forced a smile. Kendall Ann Erickson—will you marry me?

Kendall squealed her answer, Of course! Yes…YES! She started crying.

It was at this moment that Mark realized he had forgotten to take the ring box out of his pants pocket before getting down on his knee. In his rehearsed plan, he had been holding the box open, so that she could easily see the heirloom ring, making it the tipping point in his favor.

Mark stood up and retrieved the box from his pocket and gave it to Kendall.

Oh, my God, Markie! It’s exquisite! Absolutely out of this world! Yes, yes, yes! Love it! What a total surprise. Seriously! I had NO idea! None, what-so-ever! Wait till I call Daddy—he’ll be speechless! He thinks you’re sooo wonderful!

Mark laughed with relief. Here, let me put it on your finger. Let’s see if it fits.

Kendall looked up at him lovingly. It’s gorgeous! Truly lovely!

Mark smiled. It’s three carats. Grandma Willa left it to me. Glad you like it.

The engagement ring fit perfectly. They kissed and laughed and were drunk on life…and on large quantities of alcohol. They had been drinking since their lunch at Brennan’s, carrying with them the go-cups that are a tradition in New Orleans.

After hugging and kissing, Mark and Kendall resumed their stroll, with Kendall holding her left hand out, admiring her new ring. As they neared the tall iron gateway out of the park, Mark suddenly stopped and looked deeply into Kendall’s eyes. Honey…I need to tell you something.

She caught her breath, sensing that it was important.

Mark bit his lower lip and the expression in his eyes was serious. Stroking her hand, he took a deep breath. I know this’ll sound corny. But, in all honesty…my life really began when you came into it.

Her eyes teared-up. For me, too, Mark…for me, too. She swallowed hard, trying not to cry. Until you came along, it felt like I was just barely making it from one awful trauma to the next. Mom’s long illness and death. Scraping together enough money for college. Daddy’s drinking. Losing his job. Then losing our home. Fresh disasters every day.

Kendall took a shaky breath and raised her eyes to meet his. You’ve been a total anchor for me, baby. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth—hard.

With their arms around each other, they sauntered out of Jackson Square, deciding to celebrate their engagement with Champagne. Mark suggested going to the bar in their hotel.

As they walked into the Carousel Bar, it was dimly lit and relatively quiet—a pleasant respite from the noisy holiday crowds out on the streets. The focal point of the room was a large circular bar designed to look like a merry-go-round, complete with an authentic carousel top. But instead of wood horses to ride on, patrons sat on barstools decorated with lions, zebras, tigers and elephants.

After the bartender opened their Champagne for them, Mark held up his flute and toasted, Here’s to a lifetime of happiness.

Kendall took a sip, then held up her flute, And to our future children!

Yes, replied Mark, Here’s to Markie, Jr. and Patty.

After finishing their bottle of Champagne, Kendall almost fell off of her bar stool. Is it just me, or is the room moving?

Mark smiled. "It’s not you, baby. The bar is moving—rotating once every fifteen minutes. Haven’t you felt the vibrations?"

Thought it was just the booze. Who knew? She looked up, admiring the roof of the merry-go-round. It is a cool bar, though… what with the carousel top and everything. Definite theme thing going on here.

Mark drained his flute of Champaign. And it’s quite famous. Lots of authors have written about this place…like Hemingway, Faulkner, Tennessee Williams.

Kendall said, All dead and gone, baby…any examples of live ones?

Yes, as a matter-of-fact. Anne Rice and John Grisham, for instance. And Rebecca Wells.

"You have an amazing memory for facts. No wonder you graduated Magnum Cum Laude."

Mark stroked her hand. You’re good for my ego. Building me up where Mom tore me down.

Kendall frowned. Was your Mom really that bad?

He thought awhile. "I guess bad would be the wrong word. She was just always so consumed with the fear that I’d turn out like my Dad."

Kendall pursed her lips. I probably wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t drunk…and forgive me if I’m being too judgmental… but…

Mark tilted his head. But what?

Kendall lowered her eyes. It’s just that…well, it’s been four years since your Mom and Step-Father died. Maybe it’s time to…well, to…

Mark sighed. "To forgive my mom?

Kendall shrugged. Couldn’t hurt, honey.

Mark sighed, shaking his head. Easier said than done.

Kendall realized she was too drunk to have a meaningful discussion. I need to get some food in my stomach.

Good idea. Let’s go get some dinner.

Kendall shook her head. Too, too drunk to walk anywhere. Hey! Let’s eat right here in the lounge, down there in that lower level, at one of those stationary tables. Not enjoying this revolving bar.

They carefully maneuvered the three steps down into the elegant dining area and sat at a white-linen-covered table. A pianist at the grand piano in the center of the room serenaded them as they ate their dinner of coconut-crusted shrimp, broccoli in cheese sauce, and Caesar salads—accompanied by Chardonnay wine.

Under the table, Mark touched Kendall’s shoe with his. She loved that about him—he usually kept a physical connection with her.

When they finished their meal, Mark said, I’m going to order a beer in a go-cup; you want something? Maybe some more wine to drink as we watch the parade?

Kendall said, Yes on the wine…but nooo on the parade watching…must lay down, now. Please to take me up to the room, sir.

No way, party pooper. I’ve paid a fortune for this weekend, and the main point—well, besides proposing, of course—is to watch the Mardi Gras Parades.

She giggled. And the fact that I can’t walk straight?

Mark tried to be light-hearted. Come on, baby. Do it for me. It’s only a block. We’ll take it slow, and you can lean against me. He tried to sing Lean on Me, but failed to get in the same neighborhood as the melody.

When they left the hotel, they turned left and walked down Royal St. toward Canal St. Kendall felt like she was going to fall over.

By the time they got to the parade route on Canal, the parade had already started. Kendall and Mark had to push and shove through the crowd just to get within two rows of the front.

She admired the Mardi Gras masks. Let’s get ourselves some of those cool eye masks, Markie! I want a red satin one with feathers. To wear in bed! Sexy!

He winked and leered. Great visual, honey. We’ll do it.

Kendall looked around at Canal Street, an extremely wide boulevard with a wide grassy median strip separating the thoroughfare. Mark pointed to the median strip and explained, "Locals call the medians Neutral Ground. The name comes from the medians being the neutral ground between the French-speaking Creoles and the English-speaking settlers. This is where they came to do business and trade goods."

As Kendall gazed around; she felt disappointed that Canal Street looked just like most downtown areas of other American cities—clearly the French Quarter ended here, and she wanted to turn around and go back to the romance of the Quarter.

While they watched the parade, Mark explained to her, "Carnival always starts on January 6th and this year it ends on February 24th. Locals call the whole shebang Carnival, not Mardi Gras. Only the last day is really Fat Tuesday, or Mardi Gras. The biggest parades will be this coming Tuesday."

Then why didn’t we come here for the official Mardi Gras day?

"Hel-lo! Because you have classes on Tuesday. But you’ll still get the flavor of Mardi Gras this weekend."

As the colorful, double-decker floats slowly went by, Kendall enjoyed watching the costumed people throwing out beads, plastic go-cups, and aluminum coins to the crowd. Look Markie, they’re throwing coins at us!

Mark sipped his beer. "Not coins, honey—they’re called doubloons. Interesting story about doubloons, they were first created back in—"

Kendall interrupted. Can you tell me about it later? When I’m sober and can give your doubloon story the attention it deserves.

On the top level of a float, a heavy-set man—dressed in a pink taffeta ball gown—was holding up fistfuls of beads.

A group of girls wearing sorority sweatshirts yelled up to him, Throw us something, mister!

He yelled back, Y’all want some beads, girls? Then flash me!

Kendall noticed several of the girls lifting up their shirts, baring their naked breasts. She stared at the girls, wondering why they were exposing themselves just for the reward of some cheap plastic beads. She turned to Mark to ask him what he thought about it…and her stomach sank.

Mark was gone!

Chapter 2

In Shock

Kendall felt panicked. What the hell? She scanned the crowd for Mark, calling out his name. He was nowhere to be seen. Her heart was racing. She felt claustrophobic as she pushed her way back through the densely-packed crowd. Looking in all directions, she again called out Mark’s name. Suddenly she felt like a frightened, abandoned little girl.

She took out her cell phone and pushed the speed-dial for Mark’s number. It rang four times and then his recorded message came on; she had trouble hearing it over the crowd noise. She shouted drunkenly into her phone, Not funny, Mister! Either get your ass right back here or call me IMMEDIATELY! I’m not kidding, Mark. I’m seriously freaked.

Kendall had difficulty thinking or making sense out of what was happening. During the next hour, she left several phone messages, but Mark did not return her calls. Neither did he come back to where she had last seen him.

She looked around; suddenly everything had changed. During their romantic afternoon walk, Kendall had marveled at the gauzy beauty of the French Quarter, telling Mark that it reminded her of the one in Disneyland. Rolling his eyes, he had gone into a long explanation about the obvious differences. She now noticed those differences—the New Orleans Square in Disneyland looked new, was trash-free, and lacked the aroma of beer and barf. Now the real New Orleans felt ominous to her—a decadent and decaying place where bad things could happen.

After the parade was over and the revelers had straggled away, Kendall was left alone, sitting on the curb. The curb that was tilting side-to-side like a ship. She was crying.

A police officer noticed her and came over, asking, Is there a problem here, Miss?

Kendall wiped her teary eyes and tried to focus through her alcohol-haze.

He just disappeared. Write this down—he’s six foot two inches. 24-years-old. Really, really cute. Short dark hair. Green eyes. Please find him!

Name?

Mark Martin Bell.

White?

Yes.

You got a photo of the missing person?

She shook her head no, but then remembered the photo on her cell phone. She had taken it that afternoon, in the hotel room when Mark was jumping on the bed…naked. She felt embarrassed, but showed it to him, anyway.

The cop laughed at the nude photo. Not exactly the kind of thing we’ll want to put out on an All-Points Bulletin, heh?

Kendall sobbed, Please help me! He’s not the sort of guy who just ups and leaves without telling me where he’s going. Not even as a joke! Mark’s not exactly big in the sense-of-humor department.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. Oh, I don’t know about that—your photo seems to say otherwise. He stifled a smile.

Sorry, Miss, but I’ve gotta get going—I’m already late for duty down on Bourbon, monitoring the crowd. We’re short of manpower and they need me. I’ll keep an eye out for your fellow. Though I’m not sure I’ll recognize him with his clothes on! Heh, heh.

He adjusted his holster. My advice is to call Mark’s cell, and stay right here in this spot for awhile, in case he comes back to where you were last together. And if he doesn’t show up in—say—30 minutes, then go back to your hotel room. Chances are he may even be there, now. Maybe sleeping it off. In fact, why don’t you call your room right now? Check it out.

Good idea. But can’t you at least call it in to your…your station house, or whatever…you know, use your…the thingy on your shoulder…your two-way gizmo…?

The policeman shook his head. There’s nothing that law enforcement can do at this stage. In twenty-four hours you can file a Missing Person’s Report at the station. He pointed down Royal St., the same street that she and Mark had walked up from their hotel to watch the parade. The Police Station is down there, three blocks on the right. Sorry, but I have to go.

Kendall sadly watched him walk away. She had never felt so abandoned, or alone. She was in a strange city and didn’t know anyone. And Mark had disappeared into thin air. One minute he was standing right next her…and then he was gone.

Her hands were shaking as she called the Monteleone Hotel and put a call through to their room. No one answered. Then she pushed Mark’s number on her speed dial, trying to reach him for the seventh time since he had disappeared. She let it ring until it went to voice mail, and then she hung up. She had already left six messages and had run out of words to express her fears and frustration.

Kendall sat on the curb for the next hour, watching small plastic bags spiraling up on wind currents and then landing back down on the pavement, skittling like autumn leaves against the curbs. Occasionally the smell of beer and urine wafted past her. She felt cold and couldn’t stop trembling. Putting her arms around her bent legs, she rested her head on her knees. Her voice was angry, New Orleans is a dirty, rotten place. Disgusting!

Kendall startled as she heard someone cackle-laughing right behind her. She jerked her head around and saw an old Black woman standing over her. "Didn’t mean to dip into your conversation with yo’self. But couldn’t help overhearin’. You so right ‘bout New Orlunz. As soon as these buildings be built, they start to decomposin’…’cause of the rain and humidity. Our town been decayin’ ever since it be born. Jus’ the is-ness of things…kinda like people do—we starts dyin’ the minute we be born. Know what I’s sayin’?" The woman staggered on, apparently not expecting a reply.

Kendall sat on the curb until the sanitation workers came along and told her she had to get up and move, that the street-sweeping machine needed to get right next to the