A Mind to Kill

By Laurie Ellis

As the orangutans whoop and the champagne is sipped, no one knows that murder is in the air at the Zoo-To-Do, the swank affair of the New Orleans spring social season. Then shots are fired and events quickly escalate. Ryley Worthington, an amateur sleuth, rushes into the fray to investigate. The victim is the wife of Brad Byrnes, her best friend and long-time secret flame. The tragedy that affects Brad stirs hidden and unfulfilled emotions as Ryley determines to get to the bottom of the murder. Her discoveries shock and unsettle her when she realizes her closest friends are involved. She is forced to re-examine her values and to come to terms with her deepest fears and insecurities. Her own sanity begins to unravel as the trail draws her into the dark world of maniacal wannabes and twisted egos. Drawing on Laurie Ellis's personal knowledge of the mysteries and romance that make the Crescent City such a unique place, A Mind to Kill is at once a mystery and a study of the power of love and friendship. It is a story of transformation as a murder investigation becomes the test of individual resolve and one woman's journey toward the attainment of personal fulfillment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 4, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440166655

Laurie Ellis

Raised in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Laurie Ellis moved to Florida as a teenager and graduated from Webber International University where she was editor of the school newspaper. She is an award-winning author who called New Orleans home for over twenty years. She currently lives in San Marcos, Texas with her husband, photographer Ben Ellis.

Book preview

Chapter one

I never thought murder would be so easy.

Ain’t no big deal.

Ain’t no problem.

Ain’t no hassle.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

But ya gotta do some plannin’. Ain’t got no plannin’, ain’t got no hope of makin’ a murder work.

Ya gots a lotta time to do plannin’ when you’re in the slammer. They put me, ol’ Vinny, in the slammer.

The heat…they don’t like drugs. But I likes my drugs. An’ I likes makin’ money. Good combination. Drugs an’ money.

But even in the slammer and even with the plannin’, ya gotta have friends along the way to and from the doin’ of a murder. Ain’t got no friends an’ you’ll be all alone when the heat’s on. Ain’t no use doin’ a murder when the heat’s on an’ you ain’t got nobody out there.

S’bad when that happens.

An’ it probably will happen.

That’s why ya gotta plan.

But the murderin’. It’s easy.

‘Specially with a gun.

Just aim and shoot.

Impersonal murderin’, s’what I call it.

Sometimes ya gets away with it.

Sometimes ya don’t…

Chapter two

I’m sure, Mrs. Cavendish, I said with magnanimous patience (I was feeling neither magnanimous nor patient), suspecting that your husband of forty years might be a homosexual is quite disturbing; however, I have a very full caseload at the moment and…

What? she interrupted.

Her raspy voice rose an octave as she screeched into the phone. Her high-pitched whine aggravated the hell out of me. Worst of all, she didn’t have the common sense to be embarrassed.

Full caseload? she continued. Why, why, you’re, you’re, not even a, a professional!

‘Scooooze me?

She puppy panted in my ear. I pouted.

Oh, you know what I mean, she condescended.

Yeah, sure I do, Mrs. Cavendipshit. I picked at the polish on my nail.

She waited for a response, and then said, Well, you’re not a licensed private investigator. I mean, you’re, shall we say, freelance. No?

Ummmm, I groaned.

Oh, come now, Ryley, she mothered, I’m sorry I offended you. Won’t you please reconsider? I just need you to follow my husband for a while. Till you’re sure he’s, you know…

I know.

I could sulk with the best of ‘em.

Then you’ll do it?

No.

She smacked her hand on the table. It echoed over the phone line. I winced.

Why? She gave the word two syllables. You just can’t leave me like this! Who else will I get?

Whine. Whine. Whine.

I can recommend someone, I said.

They’ll be too expensive! You’re cheap and easy to work with.

Did she say cheap? A split-second ice cream headache stabbed me between my eyes. I rubbed the bridge of my nose until the spike disappeared. I gave her a long, drawn-out pause. Then said, I prefer reasonable, Mrs. Cavendish. Have yourself a dandy day! I chirped and cradled the phone.

Cheap my foot. Like I was some sort of floozie. I finished scraping off the remains of the nail polish. Now, you take Brenda Macklin. She was a floozie. Black stirrup pants and hot pink tank top. Made those eighth grade boys produce enough drool to fill a swimming pool. No boy ever drooled like that over me.

I grabbed my sweating beer can. It’d been long past cocktail hour, which is anytime after noon in New Orleans. I searched for the clicker, punched in the AMC channel and sat back. I love old movies and waited anxiously while the screen took its time focusing. Disappointment set in when I heard the final two words of Streetcar Named Desire:

Stelll-aaaa! Brando screamed. Stelll-aaaaa!

I pictured Mr. Cavendish screeching, Florrrr-ence! Florrrr-ence!

I really should help her, you know. It’s not that I need the money. It’s just that I need the action.

But that happened to be my first call of the day. My second one turned out to be the one that would jump-start my life in ways unimaginable.

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My name is Victoria Ryland Worthington The Second. I’m an only child of an only parent. My father left when I was seven, and we haven’t seen him since. I think he’s in England somewhere.

I’m told he was a World War II hero. Something about a village and machine guns and dead bodies and some sort of medal. Mother’s version of his heroism went something like this: He was in the wrong place at the right time.

I suppose I could have found out more about my father, but I decided it would be better to just put him out of my mind. Pretty much like my mother did.

I remember when Mother found out my father had left her. He’d left a note inside one of her favorite antique boxes and put the box on the dining room table. Nobody noticed it until dinner. She and I and my nanny, Jazz, stood around staring at the box wondering what to do. It was a pretty, little box made of cherry wood with beautiful inlay on the top and sides. I’d always liked it. Mother decided to take the box into the kitchen, and we anxiously followed. She put it on the counter then poured herself a glass of red wine. She placed the glass beside the box and rolled her fingers on the counter.

Mom? I asked. What’s the matter?

She looked at me and gave me a sad smile. She had a beautiful face with round, blue eyes. She kept her blonde hair in a stylish do, tucking it behind her ears and curling just under her jaw line. She had a perfect figure and always dressed in tailor-made clothes. That day she’d just come back from playing golf. She’d taken off her sneakers; the collar of her light blue polo shirt had been turned up.

I suspect I know what this is about, she said.

Ever the inquisitive child, I asked, Is it bad?

She opened the box and lifted out a note. Well, let’s see, she said.

She read the note and returned it to the box. She picked up the glass of wine, swirled it several times, gave it the sniff test then took a sip. She swished the wine around in her mouth before swallowing it. She lifted her chin into the air and let out a sigh, as if she’d just had the best sex in the world.

Jazz took my hand and sat me down for dinner. Later that night, she told me that my father would not be coming back. I cried for days until I couldn’t cry any more. Jazz held me and said we would be fine. I never did see my mother cry and no one ever talked about my father again. The pretty box had disappeared.

Several months later, the box appeared without fanfare to its original spot on the coffee table, but no note was inside. I remember snooping around for that note for days to no avail. It didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t change the outcome and decided I didn’t really want to even if I could.

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I’m forty-something and never been married. It’s not that I don’t love men or even that the right one hasn’t come along, because he probably has, it’s just that…

You’re afraid to commit, my best friend, Brad Byrnes says.

Ridiculous, I’d say. Brad had a way transposing shortcomings. You’re the one with the commitment hang up, I’d tell him.

He’d say, Not so!

And I’d say, So!

Then we’d agree to disagree.

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I’m a guilty, addicted jogger. I say guilty because I really don’t believe jogging is good for you. But I just can’t help it. I’d start out debating whether to abuse my body and all its organs by going the full ten miles or turn for home after three; or perhaps just forgetting it altogether.

But then I’d begin to reach that rhythm, that reliable, dependable, one-two-one-two pace that takes me to another level of consciousness, or more aptly, unconsciousness.

Soon my mind slips away from my body. I cease to feel the concrete, hear the panting, taste the sweat, see the world around me. I’m weightless, painless, thoughtless. Numb.

It’s pure bliss.

But one of these days, if I know what’s good for me, I’ll take up walking.

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At some point in time before my father left, Jazz told me I looked just like him. I was ecstatic. I’d clapped my hands and jumped around and laughed. I ran to him and threw my arms around his neck. Jazz says I look just like you!

Oh, no, Miss Victoria. You look just like your mother. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world.

I pouted. But I want to look like you!

He lifted me onto his lap. Let’s just say you got the best of both of us. That way, you look like your mother and me. How’s that?

I thought about it for a while then agreed that would be okay.

Honestly, though, I must have thought he was some sort of Adonis, because I was giddy for weeks. But the fact that I looked like him must be why mother never really got into raising me. Oh, I suppose she loved me, but being around me basically pissed her off.

I remember her one moment of motherhood. Someone (I think it was Brad) had broken a piece of her fine Royal Doulton china. Mother assumed I’d done it. I’d protested that I hadn’t, but she didn’t believe me. She sat me down on the bed and told me the story of the little boy who cried wolf. I got the message but insisted I wasn’t crying anything but innocence. She threw her hands up and walked away. That was it. Motherhood.

Mother probably would have been fairly good at parenting if she’d kept trying, but I suppose neither of us thought it was necessary, so the idea never got off the ground.

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Jazz.

Her real name is Bertha or Beula or something frightful like that, but we all call her Jazz. My perfect, wonderful nanny, Jazz. Jazz knows every jazz musician who ever walked the earth and can name every song ever hummed, strummed, sung, tapped, tooted or drummed.

Jazz is a large woman. Not obese, but chunky, like a nanny should be. She has smiling eyes and skin that’s shiny black. Her gap-tooth smile is irresistible and it’s impossible not to smile right back at her.

Jazz would dance her way through the day, listening to some jazzy tune on the radio. Sometimes we’d hold hands and jiggle and giggle to a bouncy song. She’d sing in what we called her Ethyl Merman voice: a crisp, rich, booming sound that bounced off the walls and filled the house with joyful music. I told her I wanted to be a singer just like her. Jazz would smile and say, Well, you just do that. We both knew I couldn’t carry a tune in a paper bag, but Jazz said I had a great voice and encouraged me to belt ‘em out with her.

That’s Jazz. She’s as perfect as you can get in a human being. Always there for me, encouraging me and loving me no matter what. Always ready with one of those smothering hugs where I’d get consumed in all the layers of her soft body.

When Brad and I would get in trouble, it’d be Jazz who would come to our rescue. Like the time we got caught driving after curfew with a six pack of beer in our car in Mississippi on spring break. We ended up in jail wearing those bright orange jumpsuits. The next morning, we anxiously watched Jazz through the observation window hefting her purse up onto the counter and pulling out her money to pay our bail. She had that look that unnerved us. She could put the fear of God in us with the look. When we met her outside, she didn’t speak to us. We drove home in silence. I bit off every one of my nails during that one hour trip home. I don’t remember what our punishment turned out to be that time. There were so many it’s hard to keep track. But Jazz was never able to stay mad at us for long and soon we were back in her good graces.

I feel sorry for kids who don’t have a nanny like Jazz.

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Jazz fell several years ago and broke her hip.

I took care of her at the house for a long time, but it required lifting her rather hefty body, and while I’m no wimp (I’m five-six and can arm wrestle with the best of them), it was a feat necessitating more than one person. Her physical therapy requirements were more suited for a professional.

She soon became forgetful and her doctor, after much convincing, persuaded me to put her in a home. It was the most agonizing decision I’ve ever made. I missed her so much I cried for weeks. I even talked to the doctors about letting her come back home, but they always seemed to convince me to leave her there. It wasn’t that the home left me feeling depressed or worried. It was very pleasant and the people were friendly and efficient. I just missed her.

I visit Jazz every day and sometimes she remembers me.

Those are the days I cherish.

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Mother died at the age of sixty-two. I’d just turned thirty-eight. I gave her a big send off, just as she’d planned.

She’d outlined to the smallest degree the details for the occasion. Mother didn’t understand much in life, but she did understand things. Arranging her funeral was the closest we’d ever been. I only wish I’d been able to cry.

I know how that sounds. Cold and heartless. But that’s not really fair. That’s just the way it was between us. Between mother and daughter.

Mother and I were complete opposites. She was a pedigree, very proper and fashionable. Her actions were controlled and deliberate and she spoke the King’s English with great pride. Mother loved long sparkly dresses, shiny jewelry and high heels. She liked sipping wine from fine crystal.

I, on the other hand, preferred to kick my sneakers off, throw my feet up on the coffee table and crack open a beer. It’s not that I don’t know how to act all prim and proper. I just prefer a less formal lifestyle. On this and in many other areas, Mother and I very seldom found common ground.

I suppose I’ve missed her in a daughter sort of way, but I can’t shake the guilt I’ve felt for not crying at her funeral. The tears were there; they just never made it out of my eyes. Only recently did I realize I blamed her for that guilt.

It’s not that I disliked her, because I didn’t know her well enough not to like her. Mother and I had a strange sort of relationship. The kind where you each assume the other one loves you, but neither of you quite knows how the love thing works.

I had a much stronger emotion for my father.

I detested him.

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Mother left me financially healthy, so I don’t really do much for a living, except I do enjoy sleuthing. I always thought maybe I should’ve been a detective. It’s actually one of the few things in life I’m pretty good at.

I got into the sleuthing business shortly after my twentieth birthday. It was one of those turning points in a person’s life that stays with you forever. It all happened so fast.

My best friend, Jill, and I were walking down a side street in the French Quarter around dusk when a man appeared out of nowhere and scraped to a stop in front of us. We jerked to a stop and stared at the husky man before us. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. His long, frizzy hair had been pulled back in a loose ponytail. An unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Got a light? he asked.

I said no then in the light of a street lamp, I saw a sort of tricky spark in his eyes. A squinty, I-don’t-like-you-bitch kind of glare. I latched onto Jill’s arm, gave her a subtle tug and began walking away.

What’s the matter? Jill whispered.

Nothing, I said and tried to hurry her along. I glanced back at the man, but he’d disappeared. I relaxed and slowed down. Then I heard a loud pop that sounded like an amplified cap gun. I felt a strong tug and struggled not to fall forward. I fell on top of Jill who had crumpled to the ground. I stifled a scream and tried to pull Jill up off the ground.

Come on, Jill, I said, yanking on her arm. I don’t know what that sound was but we need to get out of here.

I realized then what had happened. I saw the dark spot on her blouse; she had no pulse. I stared at her for what seemed an eternity. My heart raced. My hands shook. My brain screamed:

Do something! Do something!

From the blackness of night, a woman’s silly, faraway giggle brought me back to that cold sidewalk and Jill’s lifeless body. I pulled her to me and wept. I remember rocking her and saying over and over, Please don’t die. Please don’t die.

I glanced up and down the street for someone to help. Help me! I yelled to the emptiness. Please help me!

I heard a man mumble something unintelligible. He’d suddenly appeared behind me and I pleaded with him to get some help. I recognized the white T-shirt and frizzy ponytail; the cigarette dangling from his mouth.

Why did you kill her? I cried. Why?

He said something else I couldn’t understand then took off. The pounding of his shoes faded away into the night. In my mind, I heard a voice.

Go after him! You have to go after him!

But I didn’t. My life seemed frozen in some sort of macabre time warp. I floated in a Peter Max world of weird shapes and colors.

And in all reality, what could I do? What would I have done if I’d caught up with him? Punch him in the nose? Ask him for his gun so I could shoot him? Nothing made sense.

The only reality at that moment was that Jill had died and a piece of me did too.

I blamed myself. I should have done something. Made Jill run faster. Ducked into a doorway. Screamed. Gone after the man.

It took me years of moping to get over it, and it was Brad who snapped me out of it.

For heaven’s sake, Ryley, quit moping and do something about it!

So I did. I went to the library and began my research. I started with the Times-Picayune obituaries for the past five years. Then I contacted as many crime survivors as I could find and convened a meeting. Out of one hundred fifty contacts, I’d gathered thirty-eight people: Twenty-one blacks, twelve whites, one Vietnamese and four Hispanics.

The purpose? We would never be victims again.

After one year, we finally had a plan. There were twenty-one of us left: eleven blacks, seven whites, one Vietnamese and two Hispanics. We had six women and fifteen men between the ages of twenty-five and fifty-seven.

We were ready to go. By the time we’d packed our suitcases and boarded a plane to Mexico, thirteen of us had paid our $5,000 for the adventure. We traveled to a patch of emptiness in southern Mexico where we were met by a former Green Beret, a Navy Seal, an ex-CIA agent, a cop from New York City, a professional boxer and a marshal arts expert.

We slept in tents and ate army rations. We went through vigorous training in everything from self-defense to how to dress a wound to how to plan an attack to what to look for in a potential killer. We learned to kick, punch, jab, poke, jump, fall, roll, aim, shoot and survive. And it felt good.

We would never be victims again.

I don’t know what happened to all my survival buddies. We tried to keep in touch, but everyone just drifted apart. I know one is now with the FBI and two are attorneys. One became a senator. One is a baby-sitting grandmother.

I bought myself several Smith & Wesson .38 Chief’s Specials even though the thought of actually killing someone scares me silly. I’ll do it, though, if I have to, especially if it concerns a friend. And I’ll do it at any cost.

I never told anyone about my training, except my closest friends. Jason beamed with pride.

I want to grow up and be just like you, Ryley, he’d said.

Kevin crossed himself and said, Violence begets violence.

Brad rolled his eyes. Ryley, you never cease to amaze me. I hope you’re around if I ever need help.

And, of course, there was Jazz. I don’t approve of guns and violence. But I understand.

Jill will forever be in my heart. That experience has stayed with me to this day. Every detail is crystal clear down to the pebble I felt under my knee when I fell on top of her. And every time I see a man with a ponytail, I want to rearrange his face.

I grabbed myself a beer and thought again of Mrs. Cavendish. She’ll be fine, I thought. I swung my beer can in the air in a mock toast.

Here’s to you, Mrs. Cavendish. Best of luck, I said and took a chug.

The phone rang. I hesitated to answer it but eventually picked it up.

I would soon