Not Dead Enough

by J. M. Redmann

  Sabrina, her twin, also married young. Also a blurry wedding picture. She married Harden’s cousin, Haydel Jordon, another hard-looking man, a deep meanness around his eyes. She managed a bare smile for the camera, but it was hard to find joy anywhere in the picture. Maybe it was just the fuzzy newsprint. Maybe. If she was lucky.

  He did two years in prison shortly after they were married. They also had a daughter. She was named Hardeen. Lovely.

  Haydel was more jail prone than his cousin. Or stupider. He was back in just six months after he got out. Car theft. More stints in and out. Then a short paragraph—knifed in the shower in prison, left there to bleed out. No one held to account.

  The women faded away. No more notices. No jail time, no more marriages. Or maybe only the first one merited mention in the newspaper. I could find very little information about any of them. No occupation, no college graduation. Nothing to hint at what kind of people they were, even as vague as majoring in biology or English. Women who lived in shadows.

  Hannah Foster was a first cousin to Salve and Sabrina. Daughter of Phoebe Brande and her husband, Marlin Vincent. Another blurry newsprint picture of her wedding. Married Hubert Manred. A pharmacist. She was seventeen.

  Too many Brandes to keep track of. I sketched out a family tree.

  Ellis was the oldest of five brothers—and three sisters. One of his brothers died in a car wreck; another in jail, supposed overdose. Back in the day when overdoses weren’t so common. His youngest brother was father to Salve and Sabrina. That would put them both at around the right age for the woman in the morgue, late thirties to early forties. Before he died in the wreck, his brother managed to pop out a few kids as well, and his oldest daughter was the mother to Hannah Foster. Again, putting her in a possible age range for the dead woman, late thirties.

  Hannah married again—no mention of what happened to Hubert—still, as all good Brande women, young, at nineteen. Unlike the other Brandes, she and her husband looked happy in their wedding picture. Dominic Foster. He was tall and handsome, more Mediterranean than the pasty white of the Irish Brandes. He listed his profession as accountant. Two years after they married, they had a daughter, Ellicia Halley.

  Too many E and H names. My eyes were itching and blurry.

  I sat back and stared out the window. The August sun glared. I got up and pulled the blind to shade it out, then sat back down.

  All four of the women Ellis Brande named—Andrea Brande, Salve Smyth, Sabrina Jordon, and Hannah Foster—were possible, at least in age range and vague looks, as the woman in the morgue. But I only had his rant to include the last three. Anmar had confirmed her twin was missing and had not contacted her.

  I glanced at my watch. It was well past lunchtime. The searches had been time consuming.

  I needed a break, and lunch was calling my name.

  My stomach was in mid-growl when my phone rang.

  It was Joanne calling my name. I needed to talk to her.

  I gave her a quick rundown of my conversation with Ellis Brande.

  “And you’re still sitting in your office like they’re not trying to kill you?” was her response. She added, “Go somewhere safe, where they can’t find you.”

  “Hey, I hear the cops are driving by every once in a while. I should be fine.”

  I heard the frustrated sigh. I was meant to. “Do not blow this off. Yes, they’re well over the stupid line, but stupid men have killed a lot of people.”

  “I know, but I also don’t want to be run out of town. My boss doesn’t give me a great vacation plan. I don’t work, I don’t eat.”

  “At least vary your routine. You might want to stay away from places they know about—like your office—for a few days.”

  “I’ll carry my gun.”

  “Humor me. I have enough gray hair as it is.”

  “Then go completely gray and it will all match, no straggling brown left to fade away.”

  “Don’t do it,” she said. “Don’t blow it off and act like the hero. It won’t do you any good and it won’t help the situation. You can come stay with me and Alex. But no more ‘I’m tough’ bullshit.”

  “Maybe I am tough,” I said.

  “You are. You’re not bulletproof. Come over, spend a few days with us. You can keep working. You can help me with the case.”

  It was tempting. Joanne was right. I needed to be hard to find for a while. And it would be fun to hang out with her and Alex, as well as throw around ideas about this case. She usually kept strict police protocols about sharing with civilians. She was offering a lot, which was a sign of how worried she was. There was just one problem.

  “If I’m in danger and I stay with you and Alex, I put you in danger as well.”

  “I’m a cop, I can handle it.”

  “Alex isn’t.” To keep her from arguing further, I added, “Look, Joanne, you’re right. I’ll find a place where no one will look for me. But I can’t put my friends in danger.”

  “Do it now. Promise? Let me know where you are. I want daily check-ins.”

  “Agreed.” Then I rushed to the question I really wanted answered. “Any word on getting an ID on the body?”

  “Still waiting. They’re hunting down the dentist. Hope she had at least a few fillings.”

  “Maybe I can find a way to ask.”

  “Don’t. The more you stay out of this, the better. Call me later and let me know where you are.”

  She hung up. I knew Joanne was going to do the same thing I’d done, search the names Ellis had blurted out, just with better police resources.

  Don’t underestimate them, I reminded myself. Maybe Ellis was angry and had given something away. And maybe he was angry and still cunning enough to drop names to lead me into a labyrinth.

  I grabbed my laptop and the sturdy messenger bag with my gun as well as other PI tools like cameras and disguises and headed down the stairs. I did not need to be easily findable.

  I stopped in at the coffee shop, ignored my growling stomach to maintain my vow not to subsidize them. Melba was there. I caught her eye and said, “If you see that guy around here again, call the cops ASAP. Gangster from Atlanta, up to no good.”

  “Can I shoot him in the butt first?”

  “I’d say yes, but I’m not the final authority on that.”

  “Got ya. I’ll keep it legal.” She winked at me.

  I paused in the door to scan the street before heading to my car. The most danger was another bicycle tour spouting historical nonsense. “And on the corner is the original location of the House of the Rising Sun, where Louis Armstrong got his start in jazz.”

  “Only credulous Yankees would believe that shit,” I said loud enough for the last two cyclists to turn their head in my direction.

  No sign of Junior Boy. Maybe Ellis decided to send the D team instead of the F team, and their plane was delayed in Atlanta.

  I headed to the one convenient place where no one would ever look for me, a new national chain coffee shop location that had just opened on Elysian Fields. We have plenty of good local coffee shops and I would always choose them. But hidden I needed to be, so hidden I was. Plus I could find something I could call lunch and use their Wi-Fi to continue my searching.

  After getting a large iced coffee, Bucket of Latte—it was too damn hot for anything hot—and a tired-looking turkey sandwich (Turkey SourBucks), I set up at the most out-of-the-way table, my laptop screen facing the wall so no one could see it.

  I went back to the Brandes. As best I could given their scant notice, I searched all the Brande women, daughters, wives, cousins.

  Two more iced coffees later, to earn my table, I had gone through most of them. Anmar was right, some did disappear. Or died young. Domestic violence? And a family that closed ranks around the men? I didn’t have the time or energy to look up death rates and ages for women during those years. This was from the ’60s on, not before clean water systems and vaccinations.

  What would it be like to grow up in a family
like that? Warped, a looking glass world with right and wrong upside down? Stealing and cheating are good, and being honest and kind are bad. Be loyal no matter how little it’s returned. There is one big lottery we’re all forced to play: who our parents are. Win at it, with decent people who know how to love and nurture and provide what’s needed. Do okay, with parents who aren’t perfect but do their best. Lose, and end up with the broken people who break you as well.

  From the Brande family tree, they had scattered a number of broken people around.

  But the main thing I was looking for was candidates for the dead woman. How many in the age range? How many could I find enough photos for—even the blurry old newsprint wedding ones, that would confirm they carried the Brande looks?

  I had my answer. The women Ellis Brande had mentioned. He had slipped up and given me their names, not misled me.

  At least I knew and didn’t have to keep looking over that shoulder.

  A slow pile of information, some guessing, some firm ground. With enough stepping stones, I could find my way through this swamp.

  I also needed to find a place to stay, at least for tonight. With a sigh at my bank account, I chose one of the big convention hotels. They would be anonymous and would have security. Even if I was cursed enough to pick the one Junior Boy was staying at, they’d be able to handle him. No, they weren’t as tough as a transwoman who had served in Afghanistan, but they’d do for a crook that dumb.

  Ellis’s threats—and Joanne’s warning—had spooked me. I drove by my house, going around the block to case any unfamiliar cars, before running in to grab enough stuff for a couple of days. One advantage of a blistering summer is that no layers or even long pants were needed.

  As I handed my car keys to the valet, I reminded myself that as expensive as this was, it was cheaper than my funeral. Even if I was cremated. At least this was the butt end of summer, as inexpensive as it gets down here.

  After getting to my room, I called Karen again. Still voice mail. Karen was a rich heiress, but you’d think a social worker would have other things to do besides sex. Or maybe she was at her real estate office. Even so, she should be answering her phone.

  Then I called Joanne.

  She answered, in her car, from the background noise. Usually she’d let me go to voice mail if she was driving.

  “Update,” I said. “I’m in one of the hotels on Canal Street. The heat has melted my brain; I can’t even remember which one. I can look it up—”

  “That’s fine; you should be good there.”

  “I’ve tried to call Karen several times and not gotten an answer. I’m worried Junior Boy might have paid a visit.”

  “You stay put. We’ll look into it. I can find her. I’ll call—some people to get to her.”

  Call Cordelia, who was her cousin, with enough messy family ties that Karen would respond to her. “Okay, let me know. I’d hate to think I’m in a high-class hotel and she’s dealing with Junior Boy all by her lonesome.”

  “Right.”

  “Plus, if he’s coming after her, it means they’re not half-assing this. There is a rebellion in the Brande family and no way to know who’s loyal to whom. If Junior Boy is diligent, he’s sided with Big Daddy Brande.”

  “Could be,” Joanne said. “I’ll let you know when I’ve talked to Karen. Stay put.” She hung up.

  I ordered room service. What’s another twenty-dollar hamburger on top of valet parking and a high-end hotel night?

  I paced the room, but it wasn’t big enough to give me any release for my tension. The hotel did have a fitness room, but my hasty packing didn’t include workout clothes.

  Joanne was right, I needed to stay here. Even if this was Junior Boy’s place, we wouldn’t see each other if I stayed in my room.

  I turned on the TV. The weather report was that it was hot, that it would stay hot for at least the next week. With afternoon showers likely. Hot and wet.

  I turned the TV off.

  My hamburger arrived. I tipped an extra five. My offering to the gods that I would never have to bring hamburgers to whiny guests. It was food, better than the turkey sandwich of the afternoon.

  After eating, I opened my computer.

  What case was I truly working on? I’d been hired to look for a lost sister. Just a random ruse to get me involved? Or was there a larger purpose behind it? Salve Smyth could easily be called Sally, and she had been a Brande. If she was Sally Brande, or had been, why send me to look for her? She hadn’t been Brande for decades, instead likely going by her married name of Smyth. Unless she was Salve Brande-Smyth. I redid the search on her, under all combinations of those names: Salve, Sally, Brande, Smyth, Brande-Smyth.

  Oh, interesting, Sally Brande-Smyth opened a small dress shop in Biloxi a decade ago, about ninety miles east of New Orleans on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. The name was High Fashions.

  Businesses have public records, licenses, etc.

  “And you thought I wouldn’t find you,” I muttered. Of course, she’d done her best to make it hard. Given me the wrong name and wrong location.

  High Fashions seemed to do mostly high-end gowns. Sequins ’R Us. Yes, we do a lot of Mardi Gras balls and other glitzy stuff, but that hardly sounded like a viable business model. Indeed, they were often late with property taxes and were taken to small claims court on a few occasions for not paying bills.

  Ah, criminal complaints. Neighbors called in several times about noise and trucks coming in late at night. Love smaller town newspapers, they give the juicy details. A neighbor was quoted as saying, “All kinds of trucks at all hours of the night. This is a nice neighborhood, and I don’t want people I don’t know skulking around after midnight.”

  Two years ago the police raided it on suspicion of it being a front for drugs. They found one bag of marijuana that the owner—presumably Sally—claimed had been left by a disgruntled employee. A little more searching and I found the case was settled with them paying a fine, but no jail and no guilty plea. Nothing criminal on her record.

  Six months ago the store closed.

  Now the neighbors were complaining about them not keeping the property up. “Weeds growing everywhere. Seen a big snake there last week. Never were good neighbors. Forgot that folks lived on the street behind the store. Noise and parties all night.”

  Probably not drugs. My bet was money laundering. High-ticket items that can come and go. Buy a cheap knockoff and claim it’s a ten-thousand-dollar designer dress. Local cops weren’t likely to know a Versace from a Kmart.

  Where had Sally Brande-Smyth gone from there? The property records from the store listed its address as the one on record. In the morning I could get the computer grannies on her financial records—not technically legal, but people always spend money and you can always track them through their money.

  On a hunch, I checked to see if her abusive husband was still in jail. Released six months ago on good behavior and overcrowding. Was she hiding from him? Or going to him?

  Three months ago he died of an overdose, found by an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Atlanta.

  That didn’t sound like a joyous reunion. Was he no longer needed in the Brande family? Or did Sally prefer the single life?

  Or maybe he just overdosed. In prison for a long time, gets out and lets loose. But doesn’t know the drug scene anymore and gets bad stuff. Or takes his usual dose, now too much.

  But too much of a coincidence to not be related. Sally is doing a nice little money-washing business on the beach. Hubby unexpectedly gets out of jail. She closes the shop. He dies three months later.

  Someone arrives in New Orleans claiming to be her sister and wants to look for her.

  All hell is raised in the Brande family, with one side trying to steal from the other.

  I picked up the phone to dial Joanne.

  Then dialed another number. It rang but went to voice mail. Interesting she hadn’t discarded the phone yet.

  “Sally Brande aka Salve Brande-Smyth
most recently was running a high-end dress shop in Biloxi. Probably a money-laundering operation. It closed just when her husband got out of jail. Short-lived reunion, as he died of an overdose three months later. Thought you’d like an update on the case you hired me for.”

  She would not call me back, of course. But she had played me for a fool, and I was pissed. If she ever checked the messages—it had to be a disposable phone—she would know I had tracked her down.

  My phone rang.

  Joanne. She didn’t bother saying hi, just, “Karen and Holly have been over in Pensacola, enjoying the beach. I told them to stay there. Karen says she has to be back in a few days for a big real estate deal, but she’ll stay with…friends.”

  With Cordelia, the sensible family member she usually turned to when she needed something. But I didn’t ask and Joanne didn’t tell.

  “Okay, good to know. Did she mention if she’d seen anyone like Junior Boy?”

  “She said no, nothing out of the usual.” Changing the subject, she said, “You’re still at the hotel, right?”

  “Yes, even got room service to not stick my nose outside the door.”

  “Good move. Stay there.” Office noises in the background. “Got to go.”

  I let her hang up with a quick good-bye. I could fill her in about Sally Brande tomorrow. I wondered if Sally/Salve was back in Atlanta with the Brande family, or lying in the morgue. Two overdoses in a family that ran drugs but didn’t seem to use them raised questions.

  I yawned, glanced at my watch. Not late by my usual standards, but I should just go to bed and think about it all tomorrow.

  My phone rang.

  I didn’t recognize the number until I did.

  She had called me back.

  “Hello,” I answered.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “We are talking.”

  “In person. Can you meet me at your office?”

  “At this time of night? No. Where are you? We can meet around there.”