CHAPTER TWELVE
Mario Pucci was a small man with dark hair and a full, almost overwhelming beard. The mustache covered the top lip almost completely, surely interfering in the ability to chew food.
His two teenaged children were standing behind him at the front door. Both with their father’s dark hair and sad eyes.
“I’m sorry. Who are you again?” he asked.
“My apologies, Mr. Pucci. My name is Luke Robicheaux. These are my friends Griff and Milo. We are part of an investigation team. We’d like to speak with you about your wife’s death.”
“My wife’s suicide,” he said sharply. “She killed herself. She left us.”
“Mr. Pucci, we know how painful this must be but surely you understand that your wife was in tremendous pain as well. Can you imagine that?” asked Milo. “Can you imagine being in so much pain that you would leave your family?”
Mario was quiet for a long moment, shaking his head and taking a step back from the door.
“No. No, I can’t imagine that at all,” he said. “Come in. Please have a seat. Can you tell me what you’re here for?”
“Mr. Pucci, are you from New Orleans?” asked Griff.
“I am. Born and raised. My mother owned a little voodoo shop in the Quarter for years.” The men smiled, nodding at him. “You don’t think that has anything to do with this?”
“Oh, no. We don’t think that at all but it might change the way you react when we tell you why we’re here.”
“Can we get you something to drink?” asked the daughter. She was maybe thirteen or fourteen, her brother possibly a year or two older.
“Water would be great,” smiled Griff. Mario smiled at his children as they left them alone. “They seem like great kids.”
“The absolute best,” nodded Mario. “Which only makes this more difficult for all of us. Clementine seemed happy and healthy. What she did to herself, how she did it…” The men just nodded at him unable to find words that might comfort him.
“Mr. Pucci, my grandparents, and now my parents, own a massive amount of land downriver. We have an island animal sanctuary and a few days ago the animals were behaving strangely.”
Pucci stared at him, listening intently but not understanding why he was telling him this.
“The island cannot be reached by anyone. The security is tight and we have cameras everywhere. My father is, well, very good with the animals. He was on the island trying to calm the animals. We all went out to see what was happening.
“As we were speaking, suddenly, a woman started walking toward us. A woman that shouldn’t have been there. She didn’t look at us, didn’t respond to our calls, nothing. When she walked by, there was a hatchet in her back. She walked on, disappeared, and has reappeared a few times since then.”
Pucci stared at the three men. At first, his expression was one of disbelief. Then it was one of awe and query. Then it was sad.
“She appeared to you, instead of me,” he said quietly.
“Mr. Pucci, she may have come to us for a reason. We’re not strangers to seeing ghosts and helping them,” said Luke. He almost couldn’t believe he uttered the words out loud but there it was. The truth out in the open.
“Did she say anything?” he asked.
“She said nothing. We’re trying to figure out what was happening with your wife the days before her death,” said Griff. “Were you two fighting? Were there any issues with the kids? Maybe problems for her at work?”
“No,” he said shaking his head. “We’ve been married twenty-one years and I can count on one hand how many times we’ve actually argued.
Not disagreed but argued. We just didn’t do that.
Our kids are amazingly well-behaved and good, kind children.
She was very involved in their schools and outside activities. ”
“Did she work outside the home?” asked Griff.
“No. I make a good living at my job and there was never a reason for her to work outside the home. She took care of the kids and the house, she was in a book club with some of the neighbor women. She was an involved, loving, caring woman. I just don’t understand any of this.”
“We’re trying to help, Mr. Pucci,” said Griff. “We’re not the experts here but a friend of ours, a psychiatrist, said that often when people leave things undone, their spirits are here, warning us, telling us something.”
“But she appeared to you, not me,” he said.
“Try not think about that,” said Griff. “Financially were things well for you? I know that feels invasive but were there any issues with money that you were aware of?”
“None. I managed our accounts, we managed our accounts. Together. She never spent a dime on herself.”
“Did you find anything strange, unusual in her belongs,” asked Luke.
“I-I haven’t been able to go back into our bedroom. I’ve been sleeping on the sofa,” he said shaking his head.
“I know this might seem an odd request but could we look at her things? Perhaps she left something that would give us a clue,” said Griff.
“I’ll show them to your room, daddy,” said his daughter quietly.
They hadn’t even noticed that there were three bottles of water sitting in front of them. The children were so quiet, so solemn, seated behind their father. He nodded at her.
“Come with me,” she said. Griff stood to go with the girl, the other two staying with her father.
“Would you mind if I take a look inside the tool shed?” asked Luke.
“Not at all. It’s another place I can’t make myself go inside,” he said.
“I’ll show you where it’s at,” said the young man. Luke stood and shook the boys hand.
“I’m Luke.”
“Mark. It’s out back.” Milo stayed with Pucci, conversing casually, dabbling a few questions in here and there.
In the backyard stood a rusted shed. The boy unlocked the door and opened it wide. The smell of alcohol and cleaning fluids overwhelmed them both.
“The police sent out someone to clean mom’s, to clean the mess,” he said quietly.
“I’m so sorry, Mark.”
“Dad was right. Mom wasn’t sad. She was always happy, always thinking of fun things for us to do to keep me and Claire active. She was the best mom ever. I don’t understand why she did this.”
“It’s hard to understand suicide, Mark. For those of us who aren’t sad or depressed, we can’t fathom being so distraught that we would leave our families.
Promise me something. If you or sister ever feel sad or see your father’s moods changing, you’ll call for help.
Either the local authorities or call me,” said Luke.
“I promise,” said Mark. “I would never want to hurt Dad or Claire like this. Never.”
“Good man.”
“You go ahead,” he said waving him to the open doors. “I can’t go in. I guess that makes me a scaredy cat.”
“No. It makes you a man who is sad,” said Luke gripping his shoulders. Stepping into the dark space, he waited for his eyes to adjust, then opened his phone with the flashlight shining around the room.
From the photos they’d seen, there were two-by-fours supporting the walls and Clementine had turned the hatchet outward and used a u-shaped clamp to secure it to the board.
Luke stared at the space wondering how on earth she would have been able to have enough momentum to push herself back against the hatchet.
“It doesn’t make sense,” said Mark standing at the doorway.
“I know what you’re thinking and I thought the same thing.
I play football and baseball at school. I’ve been hit plenty of times.
I’ve run into the outfield wall catching balls plenty of times.
But never was I going fast enough that I hit either hard enough to kill me. ”
“Was the hatchet new?” asked Luke. Mark stared at him, tilting his head inquisitively. “I mean, was this an old hatchet of your father’s?”
“No. No, Dad doesn’t, didn’t have a hatchet. The police said she bought it on her own.”
“So, it was brand new, which meant it was probably sharp, really sharp,” said Luke nodding. “Still, the pain the moment she touched it would have been horrible.”
“The police said she took pain medications. Mom never used drugs. Never. She didn’t even take aspirin for a headache. The police think she took them from our neighbor who had back surgery a few weeks ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Mark. For you and Claire and your father. I cannot imagine how this must feel for you.”
“Sad,” said the boy. “It just feels sad. We loved her so much and now we’re all sitting here wondering if she didn’t love us.”
“I feel certain that’s not it,” said Luke. “I think she loved you so much that whatever it was causing her this pain, she didn’t want you to know about it.”
“Can we just sit out here for a few minutes. We’ve been stuck inside since it happened, worried about dad.”
“Sure. I’ll sit here as long as you need.”
Inside the house, Claire was showing Griff her parent’s bedroom. The room was neat, tidy, just like the woman left it. Clothes were neatly hung in the closet and the dresser was the same. Everything had been dusted, straightened and perfectly positioned.
“It’s like she cleaned it one last time for dad,” whispered the girl, wiping her eyes.
“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” said Griff. “Did your mom clean like this all the time?”
“All the time,” she said with a sad smile. “Mom was a bit OCD. We used to laugh at her because she liked things in their place.”
“I’m going to open the dresser drawers and just feel for a letter or note or something, okay?” She nodded, watching him as he carefully, gently touched her parents things. When he found nothing, he did the same thing to the clothes in the closet.
Noticing two books at her bedside, he fanned the pages and didn’t see anything other than a ticket from a slot machine at the local casino.
“She won,” smiled Griff. “Not much but it was thirty-nine dollars.”
“Mom didn’t go to the casino,” frowned Claire. “She said gambling was for fools and dreamers. I think she didn’t like them because her father was a gambler and lost their home when she was little.”
“I see,” nodded Griff. “Well, maybe this was from a friend or something she saved.”
“Maybe,” said the girl softly.
Griff snapped a photo of the ticket, noticing that the date on it was just five days before Clementine’s death. He looked under the bed and didn’t find so much as a dust bunny. There was nothing hidden behind photographs or paintings, and nothing inside of the shoe boxes in the closet.
“Do you-do you think we did something wrong?” whispered the girl.
“Oh, no sweetie,” he said touching her shoulder. “No. I don’t think any of you did anything wrong. I think your mother was in a lot of pain and didn’t know how to fix whatever was wrong.”
“It just hurts, you know,” she said wiping her eyes.
“I know, honey. Come on, let’s go back out there with your dad and brother. If you ever need to talk, Claire, you call me or a teacher or a police officer, someone. Don’t let it overwhelm you.”
“Like mom did,” she said sadly.
“Yeah, honey. Like your mom did.”