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  She opened the refrigerator and got out syrup and some bacon. She’d have to keep thinking about the murder—the recording and the clues. Somehow or other they would point her in the right direction. She placed the syrup on the table and started the bacon. She got plates and silverware from the cupboards and set the table. As the bacon hit the frying pan, Candide set up a tirade of barking when the odor of cooking pork hit the air. Two bodies appeared in the kitchen door.

  “My god, Mom,” yawned Angela, in her de rigeur bedspread, “what are you doing?”

  “Making breakfast,” Pamela responded brightly, holding up her spatula as a badge of honor, pancake batter dripping from her hair and robe.

  “At least you didn’t burn down the house this time,” grumbled Rocky. Then he smiled and walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  Chapter 30

  Previous week--December 17, Monday

  David Bridgewater had found an out of the way small bed and breakfast on a side street of the French Quarter. Here he had holed up as he prepared for the next phase of his project and waited for the call that he hoped would come soon, but that he knew would come eventually. His look had changed. He had now transformed into a traditional, conventional, young businessman. His hair was trimmed neatly—no facial hair remained. He had purchased a wardrobe of comparable clothing to add to what he had already changed into from his brother’s dead body. He had discarded all of Daniel’s personal items and his suitcase in various trash bins around New Orleans. He was careful to remove any identification and to not deposit too many items in the same place. He remained very low key. The only pleasure he allowed himself during this time of–what he considered—transition were nightly visits to some of his favorite alternate music bars. He realized he probably stuck out in his new attire, but he speculated that people would just think he was a tourist trying to pick up some local color. Also, as he knew that the underground vampire ball was in full swing in the next few days, he was anxious to take in some of his favorite bands—some he’d introduced on air himself and had helped get their start.

  He realized that the news of “Theodore Ballard’s death” might create some problems for him. After all, his brother had found him so people knew where he was. That private dick Danny Boy had hired knew his alias, so he—or anyone he or Daniel may have mentioned the name Ted Ballard to—might become suspicious if—when—the news of “Ballard’s” death got out. Hopefully, it wouldn’t reach his family or their entourage—and if so—no one would connect the news of Ballard’s death to David Bridgewater—wayward son. If it did, he was ready with a cover story.

  He kept getting calls from Daniel’s obnoxious girlfriend Amy. You’d think she’d give up; he’d ignored all her calls. Surely, she’d get the message that he wasn’t interested. The last thing he needed was some clingy, uptight society daughter looking to hook herself a Bridgewater. She might have gotten her clutches into Danny Boy, but not him. David knew what he intended to do with the Bridgewater fortune—once it was his and he didn’t intend to share it with anyone.

  Amy was frustrated beyond belief. Daniel was simply refusing to answer his phone. That must be it. Harold Vickers had spoken to him. According to Vickers, Dan had answered his phone and spoken with him. Vickers even asked Amy if she wanted him to ask Dan to call her, but she said she didn’t. If he didn’t want to talk to her, she’d deal with it herself. She didn’t need a lawyer acting as a go-between for them. Besides, right now, talking to Dan wasn’t even at the top of her list. She was still feeling terrible and she’d made an appointment with her doctor for this morning—if she could make it there without vomiting. She maneuvered her small car into a spot in front of her doctor’s little clinic. She knew she could see Dr. Knowles, the Bridgewater family physician; Daniel had told her to go to him, but she just felt more comfortable with Dr. Lucy who she’d known for years.

  Monday morning she assumed would find Dr. Lucy’s waiting room packed, but amazingly it was empty except for Sherry, Dr. Lucy’s receptionist/nurse. It was a very small practice and the large, motherly Sherry did everything that Dr. Lucy didn’t do and then some.

  “Miss Amy Shuster,” Sherry cried, hugging Amy and patting her back like a mother burping an infant, “I haven’t seen you in—years!”

  “That’s not true, Sherry. You know I’m here every year for my physical.”

  “Have you been hiding out?” Sherry’s eyes looked her up and down, suspiciously.

  “No,” replied Amy, surprised, “I’ve just been busy with work.”

  “And what is wrong today?” asked Sherry, ever the professional as she escorted Amy directly into the back and into an examining room.

  “I’ve got some bug, I think. I’ve been vomiting off and on for days. I’m exhausted.”

  “Dr. Lucy,” said Sherry as an older woman with a long grey braid and warm brown eyes entered the room. She wore a stethoscope and carried a clip board. She smiled immediately when she saw Amy.

  “So,” said Dr. Lucy, her piercing eyes glancing over the young patient from head to toe, “you look a little peaked.”

  “Peaked,” repeated Amy, “Is that a medical term?”

  “No,” replied Dr. Lucy, “but it describes how you look perfectly. Now, hop on the table and tell me what’s wrong.”

  Amy complied and Dr. Lucy talked and asked questions of the young woman as she conducted a thorough physical exam, including blood work.

  “Amy,” she said, sitting on the chair beside the table, “I can’t say for certain. I will need to wait for confirmation from the lab, but I believe I know the cause of your symptoms.”

  “What?” asked Amy.

  “I hope I’m not adding to your problems,” she said, taking Amy’s hands, “but, my dear, it appears you’re pregnant.”

  Chapter 31

  Present time--Saturday, December 22, afternoon

  “Detective Shoop,” said Pamela when she finally got the police man on her phone, “Something strange has happened. Last night, my husband, my daughter, my graduate assistant and I went to New Orleans to do some background research on the alternative music scene. You know, the type of music played by Ted Ballard on his radio show.”

  “I know, Dr. Barnes,” replied Shoop, “And I see you’re out on your own detecting again. Didn’t I warn you about that?”

  “Yes, Detective,” replied Pamela, “we were merely visiting some local music spots and listening to some of the local bands. I’d hardly call that dangerous.”

  “If,” said Shoop, pointedly, “that’s all you did. I assume you aren’t calling me just to tell me you listened to some bands.”

  “No,” she said, “while we were in one bar, we saw a man who resembled Ted Ballard, the murdered disc jockey. I mean, Detective, he more than resembled Ballard, actually. He was a dead ringer for the man.”

  “And you would know this, Dr. Barnes,” added Shoop, “because you were so close to the man?” Shoop was always so skeptical.

  “No,” answered Pamela, “I wasn’t, but my husband knew him from the English Department and my grad student knew him from the music scene. He’d run across him often at various rock performances—both in Reardon and in New Orleans.”

  “So, you’re saying you saw someone who looked like Ballard?” asked Shoop calmly.

  “Identical,” she replied. “Identical.”

  Shoop remained quiet for a few moments. Pamela could almost hear him thinking over the phone.

  “Actually, Dr. Barnes,” he said, “Your discovery may have a simple explanation. There are some people I’d like you to meet. Could you possibly come down to the police station?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now,” he replied, “I can’t ask them to remain here indefinitely.”

  “I suppose so. Does this have something to do with the man we saw?”

  “Maybe,” replied Shoop, “just get down here.” He hung up.

  Pamela remained standing with the receiver in her hand, a puzzled lo
ok on her face. Rocky glared at her.

  “What did he say?” he asked “What did he think when you told him about the guy that looks just like Ballard?”

  “He says there’s a simple explanation. He wants us to come down to the station and meet some people.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know,” she said to her husband. “Evidently, he thinks the man we chased and these people are connected. I’m going.” She placed the receiver back on the phone base and headed for the bedroom. Quickly she started changing from nightgown, robe, and slippers to trousers, shirt, and shoes.

  “You’re not going alone,” said Rocky, joining her in the competition to get dressed. “Who knows what that man wants from you? Maybe he wants you to identify a suspect from a line-up. It could be dangerous.”

  “Maybe,” she said, brightening, “Maybe they caught the killer!”

  “Hurry up,” he said. As soon as they were dressed, the couple headed for Rocky’s Accord and set out for the Police Station in downtown Reardon. When they arrived they parked in the “visitor” lot and quickly headed into the front door of the large, two-story, ochre-colored brick building. At the main desk, a uniformed officer directed them to Shoop’s office through a central section and towards the back of the building on the left. Pamela had been to Shoop’s office several times before when she had assisted Shoop with the investigation into the murder of her colleague Charlotte Clark. As Pamela and Rocky reached the entrance to Shoop’s office, they saw two people seated on chairs in front of the detective’s desk—a young woman and an older man. Both carried winter coats over their arms. The young woman was crying. The older man had his arm around the young woman’s shoulders protectively.

  “Dr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes,” Shoop said, standing at his desk as the couple entered. “I’d like you to meet Amy Shuster Bridgewater and Harold Vickers.” All four people shook hands—for what reason they did not know—politely. Shoop brought over two chairs from the side of the office wall for Pamela and Rocky, had then sit down and closed his door. He then returned to the chair behind his desk.

  “I realize,” began Shoop, “that none of you know how the others are involved in all of this. Let me see if I can explain. Early last Sunday morning, a local disc jockey named Ted Ballard was shot to death while on air. We had no clues to the identity of the killer who seemed to vanish into thin air. Also, we had little information about or contacts for Ballard. I asked Dr. Barnes here,” and he gestured towards Pamela, “to assist us with this investigation because we had a recording of the murder that the radio station had made and Dr. Barnes had been instrumental in solving a murder for us last year by analyzing a sound recording of a murder. She has been aiding us in our efforts. Dr. and Mr. Barnes, Mrs. Bridgewater and Mr. Vickers arrived in my office several hours ago and the tale they have brought me is astounding, I think you will believe. I believe, Dr. Barnes, you will see that it tells us the identity of the killer of Ted Ballard. Maybe, I’ll let Mrs. Bridgewater tell you…”

  “I don’t think I….” said Amy, clasping a used handkerchief in her fist, tears welling up in her eyes.

  “Let me, please,” said Vickers. “Dr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes, I am the attorney for Charles Bridgewater, head of a well-known carpet-manufacturing family. Charles Bridgewater is dying. He has two sons, David and Daniel. Soon after high school graduation, David and his father got in a terrible feud. Charles disowned David and David left the family and the family hasn’t heard from him since—which is how Charles claimed he wanted it. Daniel has been running the business since his father became ill, but Daniel has always wanted to reunite his father and his brother. With his father’s impending death, Daniel felt much greater pressure to bring his family back together, so he hired a private investigator to track down his brother. The investigator was able to find David living under an assumed name…”

  “Ted Ballard?” asked Pamela.

  “You are three steps ahead of me,” said Vickers. “Yes. When Daniel discovered where his brother was, he was determined to go to him and bring him home to try to make things right between him and his father before his father died. Daniel headed here and actually met with David. Things seemed to be going okay. Daniel was reporting to me regularly. He thought he would be able to convince his brother to return. He indicated to me that David wanted him to visit the radio station where David was a disc jockey. Daniel planned to go there last Saturday night which I assume he did. The next day, I heard from Daniel—or I thought it was Daniel--and he indicated that he was still having trouble convincing David and that David was having serious problems that he didn’t know he’d be able to solve. He didn’t indicate what those problems were, but I got the idea that he thought maybe he was into drugs or some type of crime. Then, Amy found what she did.”

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Barnes,” said Amy, sniffling, “I know you’ve helped solve this whole mess, but for me, it’s too late. Too late.”

  Vickers gave her shoulder a squeeze.

  “I’m Dan’s wife—actually his secret wife,” said Amy proudly. “We’ve tried to keep our marriage secret because of all of this trauma going on about David and Dan’s father. Dan wanted to tell his father about us; he was planning on telling him the minute he got David and his father back together. I worried that it might be dangerous for Dan to try to bring his brother back, but I never thought he’d be murdered.”

  “Murdered?” exclaimed Pamela.

  “While Dan was on this wild goose chase to bring his brother home, he would report in to me regularly by phone—several times a day. He told me about his plans to see David—or Ted Ballard—perform at the radio station Saturday night. When he didn’t call me the next day, I knew something was wrong. I called Harold and he said Dan was calling him regularly. It didn’t make sense—all of a sudden he stops contacting his wife when he is calling his lawyer. I started to go crazy when he didn’t respond. I even went online and looked up information for the station where David worked and the town and discovered to my horror that the disc jockey Ted Ballard that I knew was David Bridgewater had been murdered. I called Harold and we realized immediately that something horrible was wrong. We suspected that it was David who was calling him and not calling me. We contacted Detective Shoop because he was listed in the newspaper stories as the officer in charge. He suggested we come here and see if we could identify the body.”

  “Yes,” continued Shoop, “Mrs. Bridgewater just identified her husband’s body at the morgue. The person who was killed was not David Bridgewater—alias Ted Ballard. It was Daniel Bridgewater.”

  “Dan had several false upper teeth in a partial plate. He had a minor accident at the plant several years ago and kept it quiet for insurance reasons,” Amy said softly, “He never wanted anyone to know. He didn’t even like it that I knew about it. But when I told the coroner about the specific way the teeth were made, it seemed to verify that the victim was indeed Dan—not David.”

  “You see, Dr. Barnes, Mr. Barnes,” continued Shoop, “The reason for the extreme confusion in the identification and the reason you thought you saw the dead Ted Ballard in New Orleans is that David and Daniel were identical twins.”

  “Identical twins,” she gasped, “Now I see how he did it.”

  “You mean the murder recording?” asked Shoop.

  “Yes,” said Pamela, “the patter Ballard—or rather David--gives about the killer pointing the gun at him is all false. He’s really pointing the gun at his brother, who is standing by the door. That’s why we heard the brother gasp. Daniel was probably shocked to see his own brother pull a gun on him. And David shot him before he was able to respond. The angle of entry of the bullet matches because David was seated at the desk and Daniel was standing at the door. After David shot Daniel, he turned off the microphone. What happened after that I don’t know.”

  “I can speculate,” said Shoop, “He probably exchanged clothes with his brother, dragged the body to under the desk, took his wallet and keys, and left in his car
. He then, no doubt, went to Daniel’s hotel, checked out after clearing any trace of his brother from the hotel room, and headed for New Orleans where he was spotted by…”

  “By us!” announced Rocky, triumphantly, “last night.”

  “All of this is fine,” said Shoop, looking around the small office at the four people so intimately involved in this crime. “It appears we have identified the killer. Now we just have to catch him.”

  “And I know just how we can do that,” said Vickers, holding up his cell phone and giving Amy a reassuring hug.

  “How?” asked Shoop.

  “We set a trap,” replied Vickers. “Are you game?”

  “I am!” exclaimed Pamela, and Rocky sighed, shaking his head.

  Detective Shoop looked at Rocky, “I know just how you feel.”

  Chapter 32

  Present time--December 23, Sunday

  David Bridgewater rang the elaborate bell ringer on the massive door—totally unnecessary he surmised seeing as how this mansion was now his. He could just walk in. Oh well, I’ll maintain decorum for a while, he thought. There was a death in the family, he reasoned. A certain degree of courtesy is called for. Plus, I’m not certain which of Danny Boy’s keys fits the lock.

  Harold Vickers answered the door.

  “Daniel,” he said, solemnly and gestured for David to enter. David walked into the spacious wood-paneled foyer of the Bridgewater mansion. “I’m so sorry about your father,” continued Vickers. “I know it must be especially hard for you that you weren’t here when he passed.”

  “Yes, Harold,” replied David, “Very hard. Thank you for calling. Of course, we all knew it was only a matter of time. I’m only sorry I couldn’t convince…David to come back before father passed. Are you serving as sentry now?”