The hipster coffee shop smelled of pumpkin and cinnamon. Insulting smells for the bare beginning of August here. We are so far from cool fall temperatures that they feel like unicorns. It was a slow time, so maybe they were experimenting with their upcoming specials. None of it made me more likely to eat/drink there.
As usual, I parked by my house. I probably wouldn’t find parking much closer anyway, and even if I did, by the time I left, all the parking near my home would be taken by people wanting to go to the French Quarter and spend a lot of money, but none of it on parking. They would take the nice, well-lit and maintained spot in front of my house and leave me the dark end of the street under the constantly shedding fir trees.
I headed to the bar, toting an envelope of specs for Rob.
He was there, as promised, the bottle of Chardonnay beside his glass.
“I hear you like good Scotch,” he said, pointing to one of the bottles on the top shelf.
Ethically I should have said no, but I don’t have the kind of ethics to refuse fifteen-year-old single malt, especially one with a nice hint of smoke and peat. I don’t eat raw oysters in August, but I will drink Scotch, that was about it as far as my ethics were concerned.
Once my drink was poured—a generous pour, thank you, Mary!—we moved to my usual table in the corner.
I pulled the specs out of the envelope and spread them across the table, walking Rob through the various plans. After questions about the pros and cons, he decided to go with the higher middle plan, a choice that pleased me. It wasn’t as bare bones as the bottom ones and had a fairly decent camera as well as a panic button for the bar, office, and back room. The garbage and loading area out back would be well lit, with two cameras to be able to see the entire area as well as onto the street outside.
We had gotten up to walk around, me suggesting possible places to put the cameras and lights.
Rob was reasonable, asked good questions, and we were soon back at the table signing a contract.
I used my phone to quickly type an email to Lisa/Valerie, the Electric Girls. I had worked with them for years to install security systems and they were my first choice, if they were available. It was after business hours, but this way they’d get it first thing in the morning.
And then it was time to sip the Scotch. Rob went back to his Chardonnay at the bar—he was more gregarious than my far corner table permitted. I watched the people come and go. I got another Scotch, paying this time, although opting for the same one Rob had bought me, more than I’d usually go for. But it was a nice whisky, smooth and smoky, and I didn’t want to switch to something lesser.
The sun set and the evening passed. There was no snake curled up on my doorstep when I got home.
Chapter Six
Saturday and Sunday passed and I was again staring at a Monday.
The morning quickly lost its place in my best morning of the week competition. The cloying pumpkin spice smell had wafted up my stairs and was now hovering outside my office. The blinking light on my answering machine was a message from Karen wanting to know if I’d made any progress on “our” problem.
And it was too early in the morning to spike my coffee.
My second message made me want to break that rule.
“Come talk to me.” Joanne. No hint about what, and that’s never good from her.
First a pot of coffee. A big pot. Neither had said to call back immediately. And even so, immediate was in the eye of the beholder.
Just as I took the first sip, my phone rang.
I stared at it like a snake poised to strike.
You don’t need to answer it.
But I did—I’d have to deal with it all sooner or later. Sooner might get me back to my coffee.
“Hello? I’m looking for Knight Air Conditioning?” the voice asked. Honey-dripped Southern accent, more north Mississippi than around here.
Stupid wrong number. But not one I’d ever gotten before. If it’s a reversed digit, usually I’ll get a call or two on occasion. Someone was really off on their dialing.
“Sorry, this is a private investigation agency,” I answered.
“Oh. Can you transfer me to Knight Air Conditioning?”
A gut feeling took over my impolite answer. “Stop playing games, Aimee. Who’s the dead body in the morgue?”
Click.
I checked the caller ID. A 404 number.
Atlanta.
A cross check revealed no name. Probably a burner phone, but one bought in the Atlanta area. Either stupid in that it strengthened the Atlanta connection, or arrogant that they thought I’d never catch on. Or deliberate to throw me off and make it seem like Atlanta when it was Biloxi.
The accent had been too thick, someone putting it on instead of being the way they spoke. How she pronounced Knight, the lift on the “i.” Nothing big and glaring.
And…just a feeling.
Aimee, or Sally or whoever she was, was checking up on me. Making sure I was here?
Why?
Or was it just a wrong number who hung up on me when I said something that sounded crazy? No, Miss Honey-Accent ditz would have sputtered or gaped or asked me to repeat or again demanded to be connected to the air-conditioning division.
Even if I was right, what did it get me?
We still didn’t know if Aimee and Sally were two different women or the same one. If she was alive, she couldn’t be dead—well, duh, of course. But there was a woman in the morgue, and whoever it was wore the same clothes and jewelry as the woman in my office.
It was still the same maddening circle. We didn’t know who the dead woman was—well, I didn’t, although maybe Joanne had worked forensic magic with dental records or DNA and now had a name.
I could call Joanne back and ask. But if I blabbed my suspicions—an Atlanta crime family with a similar name and a gut feeling she’d called me—I doubted she would be impressed.
I didn’t need to tell her any of it. I could just call her back.
The phone rang again.
This time I looked at the caller ID.
Karen.
I answered it. I had a few questions for her.
“Hi, Micky—”
“What kind of jewelry was she wearing?”
“What?”
“So-called Sally Brand. What kind of jewelry?”
“What kind of—? I don’t remember…it’s such a blur.”
“C’mon, Karen, you’re a high-end Realtor. Can anyone walk into your office and ask to see your properties?”
“Well…what do you mean?”
“If I walked in and said I wanted to buy a Garden District mansion, would you show me houses?”
“You can’t afford them.”
“How do you know?”
“I mean, well, Cordelia paid the bills and—”
“She did not! We split everything.”
“Okay, yeah, but she did your down payment on your current house.”
“And I pay the mortgage. Okay, I’m not the best example, you know too much about me. How do you assess your client? Separate the ones who just want to look from those who are serious buyers?”
“Well, it’s a bunch of things. Mostly the credit report and their assets. But…yes, there are clues. The cut of the clothes—well-made, tailored or off the rack.”
“Jewelry?”
“Yes, but probably not what you think. Big bling is usually meant to put on a show. Old style to indicate an heirloom is better.”
“Think about Sally. When you first saw her. What impression did she give?”
Karen was quiet for a moment, then said, “Well, frankly, nouveau.”
“New money?”
“Yes, but new money can buy just as well as old money. She was…too friendly, like she was trying to make an impression.”
“What was she wearing?”
“High end, but bought, not made. They didn’t fit well enough to have been tailored.”
“Not everyone can afford a personal tai
lor.”
“But she should have been able to afford to have expensive clothes fitted to her and she didn’t. And they were nicely done, but not the latest fashion, colors a few seasons behind. Like she did her shopping in Houston or Dallas but not New York or Paris.”
I shopped online for whoever had black or gray T-shirts on sale. But I didn’t say that. As I suspected, Karen was observant and could see things I was oblivious to.
“Atlanta?” I asked.
“Yes, that could be it. But she didn’t mention Atlanta, said she was from Dallas, newly divorced and wanted to move away. But…”
“What?” I prompted.
“She didn’t have a Texas accent. I mentioned it and she seemed taken aback, like I’d insulted her. Claimed she was Texas born and raised. As long as her check cleared, I wasn’t going to argue.”
“What about her accessories?”
“Shoes—kitten heels, basic style. No brand I could tell. Big leather purse, Versace. Had too much stuff in it, like it was the only purse she used. Jewelry was like she’d gone on a shopping spree in New Mexico. Lots of turquoise. Nice stuff, although not to my taste. But too much, so nothing stood out. You should wear one stunning piece of jewelry, not ten.”
“The woman in my office also wore a lot of turquoise pieces.”
“You think it’s the same woman and she’s dead?”
“I think it’s the same jewelry. I’m not sure who was wearing it.”
“I am not going back to the morgue!”
“I can ask Joanne if she can get us a picture.”
That mollified Karen.
“Pictures of the jewelry only, okay?” she stressed.
I assured her again that it would be pictures. I didn’t want to return to the morgue again for a long time—indeed, until I was dead and no longer bothered by the smells. Before she could think to start asking questions about “our” case, I claimed I had to go and hung up.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I locked up my office, tramped down the stairs—damn that pumpkin spice smell—and got in my car, blasting the AC to cool it down from sitting in the August sun and also to get rid of the autumn special flavor smell.
Joanne wanted to talk to me. If she wasn’t there, I could claim I’d come by as she asked. And cajole some newbie into sending the needed pictures.
She wasn’t at her desk; she wasn’t in the area.
I sidled up to my prey—newly minted officer Carol Rosenfeld, her name badge said, her uniform still crisp and shiny. She was smart and in about six weeks more I’d never get away with this, was probably on thin ice now, but she was the best option. Besides, she was cute.
“Hey, Carol, I’m helping Joanne with the murder investigation and need—”
“To talk to her directly.” From right behind my shoulder.
I whirled around. Joanne.
“I looked for you but couldn’t find you.”
“I just got in. Thanks, Carol, I’ll take it from here.” She was sweating enough to prove she hadn’t been in air-conditioned comfort. “Let’s go to my office and we can sit and chat.” She turned away, giving me no choice save to follow. She motioned me into her office, then left me there to sit and wait for about ten minutes before she returned, the sweat wiped off her face and a cold bottle of water in her hands.
“No, I’m not thirsty at all,” I said, as the frosty bottle made me realize I was.
“Sorry, budget cuts. We don’t have water to give out to everyone who wanders in.”
“I didn’t wander. You called me and said we needed to talk.”
“And you didn’t call to see if I was here.” She took her coffee mug out of her desk drawer and poured a generous swig of the water in it, then handed it to me.
I took a long gulp, to avoid responding to her statement and because I was thirsty.
“Why were you hitting on my new kids on the block?”
“Not like that. I needed a favor—one you’d do—and she seemed the best one to help.”
“Too new to know to avoid you like a swamp full of snakes?”
“No…”
“Yes. So what is it you want?”
“Pictures of the dead woman’s jewelry.”
“Why?” But her tone had changed, curious and interested instead of bored and snarky.
“I want to see if Karen recognizes it as the same jewelry on the woman who came to my office.”
“How will that help?” Joanne asked, but still curious and not a challenge.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I’m trying to get as much info as I can. Was it the same woman for both of us? Is she the dead woman? Or was the dead woman made to look like her? If the jewelry is the same, then it’s likely to be the same woman.”
“Which still doesn’t prove she’s the woman in the morgue.”
“No,” I admitted. “But it does prove there is a scam going on. If it’s the same woman, why use two different names and two different stories?”
“Maybe she thought both you and Karen are attractive and wanted to get to know you better.”
“No, the woman in my office was straight.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Trying too hard to look younger than she is or was. Too much makeup for this heat. Too much jewelry. Looking like a woman who needs to look like what a man would find appealing.”
Joanne nodded.
She is too good a listener. That’s what makes her such an excellent cop.
I told her about the Brande crime family in Atlanta. About the phone calls. She nodded, paid attention, didn’t interrupt. Only when I finished she said, “Is it possible? Hell, aliens checking us out is possible.”
“But I don’t have real evidence,” I admitted.
“No. And I have to have real evidence.”
“How did she die?”
“Not sure yet. Nothing obvious like a blow to the head or a bullet wound. We’re waiting on tox screens.” She added, “There are signs of needle marks.”
“Overdose?” I remembered her long sleeves even in the heat of the summer.
“Maybe. I’m waiting for the results. I’ll get pictures of the jewelry sent to you.”
I stood up.
She waved me back down. “Torbin’s big drag show?”
“The fund-raiser for CrescentCare?”
“Yes. Are you going?”
“I’d been planning to. Why?”
“Well, Danny was talking about it, so a bunch of us are going.”
I knew where this was heading. Into giving me a headache. “You mean Cordelia and her new girlfriend will be there?”
“They were talking about it.”
“And you’re hinting that I shouldn’t go?” I crossed my arms across my chest. The AC in here was chilly.
“No, not at all,” Joanne said, just a little too quickly. “I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“Did you pull the short straw or are you the only one who thought I should know?”
“Look, Micky, I know this isn’t easy—”
“Not answering my question, are you?”
“There were no straws, and I’m sure everyone else will tell you as well. It just came up last night, and you and I needed to talk about the case anyway.”
I got up. “I’m sure you’re busy. Send me the photos when you get a chance.”
I turned and walked out, pulling my phone out and pretending to be on a call and in a hurry so I could avoid any chitchat.
It was a two-block walk to my car and I made it in record time. Record sweat as well. I was dripping when I finally slammed into my seat.
They had talked about it last night. When they were all together. Except for me. The odd girl out. Not part of a safe, sedate couple. The angsty ex.
Torbin had made a point of telling me about the show. It was a special drag extravaganza, him reprising his greatest hits and new material. It was to be at Rob’s bar, my favorite hangout.
“This is my downtown world,” I sa
id out loud to my steering wheel. How dare she invade it? This wasn’t neutral ground. I knew it had to happen, eventually we’d run into each other. I’d meet the new girlfriend. I’d be polite. She’d be polite.
But not like this, not here, not now. That bar was my home away from home, the kind of old Quarter queer hangout that Uptown doctors did not go to, on the fringes on Rampart Street. I could be there without worrying it would be the place she’d walk into. Yes, most of the rest of the Quarter, I looked over my shoulder, wondering if she’d just finished eating at SoBou or Brennan’s. Or was sitting at the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone. The nice parts.
But R&F was mine.
I turned the AC on full blast, the noisy fan matching my mood.
Calm down, I told myself. Then answered, Why? Why should I be the one to calm down? Why should I be the one who made space for them? I didn’t want to be the kind of ex who leaned on our mutual friends to choose. They could have parties and invite Cordelia and her partner, they could meet uptown—or in those parts of the French Quarter. Yes, the rules were unspoken, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. I got downtown and she had uptown.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
I took a deep breath and pulled out cautiously. Driving while pissed off is not a good idea, and I needed to compensate.
It also wasn’t fair because they’d all be watching me, how would I behave, how would I react to both Cordelia and her new girlfriend. She had a name and I had looked it up—being a private detective and all that—but I was damned if I was going to waste memory cells on recalling it. My brain was busy enough with New Orleans traffic. A small tin-can car was pretending to be a Maserati and weaving in and out of traffic and was now attempting to jam in front of a minivan from Oklahoma that was a little too close to the car in front for any reasonable person to try.
I backed off. Let the crazies have their crazy space. The minivan sped up enough to block the tin car. Its tiny horn squealed in outrage.
“There are dead people in the morgue and you think you have problems?” I muttered.
I turned onto a side street to avoid as much of the stupidity as I could.
Then another turn and somehow my car ended up going past my favorite po-boy shop. With a parking place calling my name.
Not Dead Enough Page 7
