Murder in the Garden District (Chanse MacLeod Mysteries) by Greg Herren Page B

right-wing nut jobs—you know, the ones who think life begins at conception, that anyone who isn’t white can’t be an American—and sadly, there are plenty of those in Louisiana. Stephen turned those all over to the police yesterday. We kept copies. We gave the originals to the FBI every time one came in. But I’d have to say that, as ugly as politics can be, I don’t think anyone would stoop to murder to get rid of a candidate—at least not the way this was done.”
    “You only came in twice a week?”
    “It depended on when I was needed. I have a full-time job and I’m in the master’s program at Tulane, studying political science. I got credit for working on the campaign.”
    “Anything unusual you noticed going on lately?”
    He thought about it for a moment. He really was attractive. I wondered if he was gay or just progressive—it was hard to tell, these days.
    “The only thing that struck me as weird was this other volunteer, Dave Zeringue, a nice guy who came in a few times to stuff envelopes. A closet case, if ever there was one.”
    “Was that what was weird about him?”
    “Well, no. He—” Rory hesitated. “He didn’t seem to fit in. There was nothing concrete about it, it was just a feeling I had. I mean, whenever we would talk about issues—and that was practically all the time—he seemed uncomfortable with our positions. It wasn’t anything he said. He never really contributed an opinion to discussions, if you know what I mean. I just got the sense that he wasn’t one of us, and I couldn’t quite figure out why he was volunteering for Wendell Sheehan. Last week he didn’t show, and Stephen asked me to call him. His cell phone was disconnected, and the landline information he gave us was a wrong number. Like I said, nothing major. You asked about weird stuff.”
    He gave me that big smile again. I made a note of the name.
    “Were you here on Monday night, by any chance?”
    “Me and a couple of other volunteers. We were making cold calls for donations. Wendell and Stephen were in the back office the whole time.” He gestured over his shoulder at the door in the back wall. “Wendell came out and thanked us all for helping. He shook everyone’s hand, told us how we were going to make a difference, and then he left.”
    “What time was that?”
    “I didn’t really notice. I left at nine, and it was well before that. Maybe a little before eight? I wasn’t paying attention. I was trying to focus on what I was doing.”
    “Do you know where Wendell was going when he left?” According to the two Mrs. Sheehans, he hadn’t got home until eleven-thirty. That left about three-and-a-half hours unaccounted for.
    “He didn’t say. I assumed he went to the Delacroix. He always ate there on Mondays. He raved about the food there.”
    The Delacroix was a small bar and restaurant on St. Charles Avenue. I made a note to stop by and talk to the staff.
    “Had he been drinking?”
    “Of course not!” He seemed shocked. “I never saw him take a drink.”
    I was about to ask him another question when my cell phone rang. I excused myself and stepped outside to take the call.
    “What’s up, Abby?”
    “I’ve been out in Kenner following a lead.” I could hear traffic in the background. “I’m heading back into the city. You need to buy me lunch.”
    Whenever Abby turned up something good, she demanded I buy her a meal.
    “What kind of lead?”
    She sighed in exasperation. “Did you or did you not ask me to look into Barbara’s past? I found some really juicy stuff. You going to buy me lunch, or would you rather wait for me to write up the report?”
    I checked my watch. It was almost eleven.
    “How long before you get to the St. Charles exit?”
    “Ten minutes, tops.” She had the decency to move the phone away from her mouth before she screamed, “Stupid motherfucker! That’s why you have a turn signal, asshole!” She brought the phone back to her mouth. “Sorry about