Not Dead Enough

by J. M. Redmann

  After checking in and unpacking, and changing into non-sweaty clothes, I left again, driving to the address I’d found for the Brandes.

  Yep, a McMansion. Boring and tasteless. Worse, there were several strung together, a family compound. All equally boring and tasteless. Of course, I’m from New Orleans, it’s hard for anything to compete with the Garden District for beautiful, lavish homes. But then, ours didn’t get burned down.

  I drove around in a long loop, getting lost for about ten minutes in the winding roads that signaled “we’re too rich to drive in a straight line.” I found a place to pull over as close as I could to the entrance—a cheap wrought iron gate that badly needed a new coat of paint—and pretended to talk on my phone for as long as I reasonably could. A righteous citizen not driving while on the cell phone.

  Except for the leaves fluttering in the breeze, nothing visible was happening.

  I drove away, did another loop around the area, scoping it out. Then I headed back to my hotel. It was late afternoon; I was tired and hungry. I stopped at what looked to be a non-chain sandwich place and got two, one for now, one for later. There was a liquor store across the way. I debated for a moment, then went in and got a small bottle of vodka and some tonic water.

  Well, this is exciting, I thought as I finished my sandwich while watching a home buying show on TV that I suspected I’d seen before, but there really wasn’t anything else on and I couldn’t remember which one they picked, so I stayed with it.

  I left the vodka unopened.

  After dark, I headed back out to cruise around the Brandes’.

  It was Saturday night and they were having a party. Most of the driveway was parked up. I found a street spot that could reasonably be for someone going to the party. After about half an hour, I could see why they weren’t well liked by the neighbors. The music was way too loud; it was vibrating my car seat, and not in a fun way. People in and out, cars parked everywhere. A large and growing clump of smokers out by the gate, throwing their butts into the road. I could smell the smoke from where I was.

  Another half hour and one of the smokers threw a punch at another of them—both men, of course. They were quickly pulled apart. But much unsuitable language was unleashed.

  I got out of my car and strolled, as if a neighbor taking a leisurely walk. This was a public right of way, and I had the right to be here.

  As I got to the group, I picked the person who looked the most approachable, an older man puffing on a cigar, who seemed to be enjoying the show. He was well onto the sidewalk and I’d have to walk around him anyway.

  “Wow, nice party,” I commented.

  He looked at me. First, a who the hell are you look, then realizing I was female and a good twenty years younger than he was, a more friendly smile.

  “The Brandes know how to have a good time,” he answered. He followed up with, “You from around here?”

  “Not really,” I answered. “House-sitting down the road for some friends off in Europe. Have to have my air-conditioning redone and they offered to let me stay. Just have to water a few plants.” I smiled.

  “So what are you doing down here?”

  “I got lonely and decided to take a walk. This seems a safe enough neighborhood.”

  “Indeed, it’s very safe,” he said. “Especially with all these people in the streets. Alas, the neighbors don’t always think so.”

  “They complain about the noise?” I asked.

  “They complain about whatever strikes their fancy to moan about, like they want to live in mausoleums.”

  “Yeah, this seems like an uptight neighborhood. I mean, my friends are great, but they prefer museums to going out dancing.”

  “Ah, and you prefer dancing?”

  “I like both. I’ll save some energy from museums to go out in the evening. See both worlds.” He was flirting with me, I recognized, but it didn’t feel threatening, instead probing, to see what was possible. Or a pleasant way to pass the time. Maybe he had a wife—presumably, at his age—but still enjoyed the company of women and a little verbal back-and-forth was as far as he would go. Or maybe not, but he was a rotund man, puffing on his cigar. I could easily outrun him. Or take him down. I was probably as safe here as I could be, considering I was surveying a crime family.

  “Indeed, museums hold many wonderful things, for the mind and eye, but dancing is a pleasure of the body.”

  “Are you one of the Brandes?” I asked.

  “Me? No, an uncle in the sense I’ve been a longtime family friend.”

  “This is a very nice house. Would I be nosy if I asked what the Brandes do to get it?”

  He laughed. “So many things I can’t keep track of. Import and export, finance. They’ve been at it a few generations.”

  “That seems reasonable,” I said.

  “Would you like to see the inside?”

  “I wasn’t invited to the party. And I dressed for a walk, I’m not very presentable.” I was in nondescript PI gear, black jeans, but lightweight for the summer, and a gray cotton V-neck shirt. More for skulking around bushes than hot time on the old town. Of course I wanted to get in, but I needed to make it his idea, not mine.

  “The Brandes welcome all types. You just have to like to dance.” He crooked his arm, an invitation.

  I hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then decided not to look a gift horse this big in the mouth. A little more mild flirting, and then an excuse to leave—a migraine, a phone call from my husband on a business trip in Australia, so this is the only time he could call.

  I slipped my arm through his and we headed up the driveway to the party.

  Chapter Nine

  Dictator chic. No, tasteless dictator chic on a budget. Gold (brass really) and mirrors everyone, more bling per square inch than any zoning code should permit. Marble floors that showed a few wine stains. All the hard edges made the music and the voices take on a strident pitch, almost impossible to hear anything or anyone over.

  “Wow, this is something,” I said. I had to lean in closer than I would have liked to make that comment.

  “Let’s find the bar,” my escort said.

  I didn’t attempt to fight the noise, just nodded agreement. He led the way to the back, through the kitchen into a large back room. All the carpet was here, lush red shag pile. Bordello in Meridian, Mississippi, style.

  He knew exactly where the bar was. He cut around a clump of people either in a sloppy line or wanting to block the bar so they could easily get their refills.

  One person looked like he was going to complain, but my escort gave him a stare and he backed off.

  “Vodka and tonic,” I asked when we got to the bar.

  Mercifully, the carpet and flocked (red!) wallpaper muffled the noise, and I didn’t need to shout.

  He got bourbon neat.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as we moved away to a less trafficked area. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Don. Donald. A few people call me Uncle Donnie. And you?”

  Scramble brain. Who was I? If I lied, I’d need to keep track of my lie. I decided to go for the soft truth. “I’m Michele.” He hadn’t given a last name, so I wasn’t going to either. “And I won’t be one of the people calling you Uncle Donnie. I don’t think you’re old enough to be my uncle.”

  He laughed happily at that, which distracted him from names. As I’d intended.

  “Are you a longtime Atlanta person?” I asked. My goal was to ask him questions and keep him talking. Most of it would be mindless chitchat, but I hoped to mix in a few queries that would help me get the answers I was looking for.

  “Came here as a young man,” he said. He then launched into the story of coming from a small town in Alabama, knowing no one here, sleeping in a fleabag motel hoping for a job before his small amount of money ran out, and then being hired by Elliot Brande, God rest his soul, now passed for over ten years, and his being willing to work at anything, from sweeping the floors to driving trucks through th
e night. Elliot’s son Ellis had taken over a few years ago and recognized Donnie’s hard work. And so on and so on and so on.

  I had to remind myself to slowly sip my drink. It had more vodka than tonic. That would explain the time line. Patriarch dies and a feud to take over erupts. Eventually Ellis is the winner.

  I nodded as appropriate, murmured a few “wows” or “that must have been hard” as seemed to be needed. While looking at him, I took in the background, the people swirling around him. My goal was simple, see enough of the Brandes to know if there was a resemblance to the woman in my office. After that it was a fishing expedition. Yeah, well-thought-out plan.

  Getting into the house was a stroke of luck—one I hoped not to regret. I wondered if all the drinks were strong or if Uncle Donnie had an agreement with the bartender to make those for his lady friends especially potent. But there were so many people here there was no way to see who was Brande and who was a guest.

  Until a woman walked into the far end of the room. No, not Aimee/Sally. Her face was harder and sharper, her body willed into the curves of a young woman, which she no longer was. She was probably late thirties. Fighting middle age as if her life depended on it. In this family of buxom blond wives, it probably did. But the hair was the same, waves that fought being tamed, the same shade of dark brown, almost black. The same nose and eyebrow.

  Don noticed my attention had wandered from his riveting story. He glanced over his shoulder to see what I was looking at.

  “That woman who just came in the room, the one in the white dress,” I said. “Who is she? I swear I’ve seen her before.”

  “Really?” he said with a lazy look between me and her. “She your type?”

  I played dumb. “Type? No, just looks familiar and I’m trying to place her.”

  He nodded. “That is Miss Brande.” A little too much emphasis on the Miss, as if he hadn’t been clear enough with his earlier comment.

  “Do you know her first name?”

  “Where did you say you were from?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think I did,” I answered, now turning my attention back to him. He didn’t like me looking at another woman, especially one who might look back. “Like you, small town, but Louisiana, not Alabama. Moved to New Orleans after college.”

  “You stayed after Katrina? Must have been crazy.”

  “Yes, I did. I thought about moving on, but my house was okay and a number of my friends came back. It still felt like home.”

  “Anna-Marie. Calls herself Anmar. Brandes are an old Irish family.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not ringing a bell. Maybe someone who looks like her. They say everyone has someone who looks just like them. You were telling me a fascinating tale about how you came to know the Brande family, how kind they were to you.”

  I didn’t bat my eyelashes at him but gave my full female attention, listening to his words, praising him when it seemed like it would fit. Just when he got to the logging story and having to fight a bear with his bare hands (yes, I laughed as I was expected to) several young women shouted across the room, “Uncle Donnie! There you are.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, then he turned with a beaming smile to them.

  Younger Brandes, I guessed. Their genes combined the dark coloring of their Brande fathers—dark brown eyes, wavy hair—with the blond curves of their mothers. Or they’d all had boob jobs and dyed their tresses blond by the time they were eighteen.

  “Uncle Donnie! You have to come! Jared is about to have a fight in the pool room! You have to talk some sense into him!” Either the oldest or the one wearing the tallest high heels. She did speak only in exclamation points. Or maybe Jared in the pool hall with a cue stick was worthy of such emphasis.

  “On my way,” Donald sighed. In a courtly gesture, he took my hand and kissed it. “I hope we meet again,” he told me, before being dragged off by the blond squad.

  Saved by the bimbos.

  I put my drink down where a number of them seemed to be parked. I wasn’t going to push my luck and go where I didn’t belong, but I could wander around all the party areas—excluding the pool room. I wanted to see if I could get a closer look at Anmar, make sure the resemblance was really there and not features across the room that only passed at that distance. I also wanted to be long gone before Uncle Donnie came looking for me. Given what I knew of the Brande family, he was one of their fixers; the trucks he drove probably were loaded with illegal booze or cigarettes, the logs stolen without permits. I didn’t want him asking any more questions about Michele from New Orleans.

  The house was huge. The big marble entrance, enough space for a small ballroom, had a double height ceiling. To get to the bordello room, as I thought of it, you could go through their kitchen, with its faux French country cabinets, a stainless steel refrigerator you could hide a body in, and a stove with enough burners you could cook the body as well. Or else go through the media room, with a wall of at least eight large screen TVs, set to different sports channels with a line of leather recliners facing them and a built-in bar and popcorn machine behind them.

  I didn’t linger there. The cacophony of the TVs was worse than the bass beat in the marble room. I went back through the bordello room, got another drink, still vodka and tonic, but I asked the bartender to go easy on the booze.

  Then I wandered out to the back patio. It was still hot enough that most people stayed inside. Two men conversed in hushed tones that made me veer away, and there was another couple under a tree not doing any talking. I headed away from them as well. Given what was currently going on, they’d be naked any minute.

  The patio was huge, outdoor kitchen, several seating areas, fire pit, goldfish pond. It was several steps up from the lawn. Lighted paths led off to the other houses in the compound. The yard itself was small, sacrificed to the large rooms of the mansion, and half of that was taken up by a swimming pool, a rock arrangement so fake it didn’t look real even in the dark. A lone pink flamingo swim toy floated on its glassy surface.

  What did they have to do to earn the money to buy this monstrosity?

  I turned to look back at the house, leaving the amorous couple well out of my sight line. Lights gleamed from most windows. A few bedrooms were dark. Which didn’t mean they were empty.

  The woman in white appeared at the patio door.

  I stepped closer to the hedge by the pool, sliding into its shadow so I could watch her without being obvious.

  The resemblance was there; I wasn’t just making it up. The planes of the face—Aimee’s were softer, sliding into middle age, covered by makeup instead of hours at the gym, but they were the same. Eyebrows the same line, Aimee’s plucked more harshly, but the same arch.

  But even so, what did it mean? Weird coincidence, some grandmother coming down to two divergent lines of the family? Even if Aimee was part of the Brande family, it only confirmed what I already knew, Karen and I were involved in a con. But how and why—and to what extent—pawns now dispensed with, or was there more to come?

  The woman scanned the patio as if looking for someone, first a quick sweep of her head, then a slow inspection. The lawn wasn’t truly dark, not with the candle watts the Brandes liked, even in their path lights. She would see me if she looked in this way.

  She looked right at me and started walking in my direction.

  In her thirties, probably late thirties, I guessed. Younger than I was, but with hard and wary eyes. The white dress was simple and, an anomaly, tasteful. A reasonable amount of cleavage, but nothing too flashy. A flare to the skirt that gave it animation as she walked.

  She planted herself in front of me and said, “Who are you?”

  “Who are you?” I returned.

  “One of the people who owns this property.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I admitted.

  “Uncle Donnie said you asked about me.”

  Thanks, Uncle Donnie. “I thought you looked familiar. From across the room. My mistake.”r />
  “Okay, what’s my twin been up to now?”

  “Wait—what? You have a twin?” That was a bombshell—one I had to keep from showing on my face.

  “Don’t act stupid.”

  “I’m not acting stupid.” Then not liking the connotations of that, continued, “I’m from New Orleans. I thought I saw someone who looks a lot like you down there. Maybe it’s your twin. But it could just as well be someone who looks like you and is no relation.”

  “Are you trying to come on to me?” She gave me a look up and down, openly appraising. Unlike with Aimee, the gaydar was going off.

  “I haven’t even met you,” I said.

  “A lot of women come on to me,” she said. “It gets boring.”

  “I don’t want to bore you.” She was a good-looking woman, but her expression was hard, shading to bitter. What was the dyke daughter doing still here in this family? Uncle Donnie had been clear about his disapproval, and he was good at toeing the party line.

  “I know what you’re thinking. I don’t break mirrors and I have a lot of money. That seems to be enough to attract women.”

  “Probably men, too,” I said. “But I’m not one of them.”

  “Okay, you’re an angel in disguise,” she said, crossing her arms.

  “Nope, not that either. Not after women for their money or their body. Neither says much about the person.”

  She scowled, as if she didn’t believe me. “Where did you see this woman who looks like me?”

  “In New Orleans,” I said.

  “Where in New Orleans?”

  “The French Quarter.” That was safe enough. Everyone went to the French Quarter in New Orleans.

  “You just saw her passing down the street and she was so memorable that you noticed her enough to notice we looked alike?”

  “There was a cat sleeping in a store window, we both stopped to look. We started chatting.”

  “About cats?”

  “It was a cute cat. I asked if she liked the artwork, she mentioned another gallery she had passed. She asked me for places to eat.”