“Whoever it is,” Greg continued, “he’s been able to conceal his location from us, and not even our techs have been able to track him.”
“Then, I would say you have your work cut out for you, wouldn’t you?” Jillian said, as she ducked into the cab and slid all the way over to the left.
Martins’ face flamed up, whether with anger or shame, I didn’t know. Either way, he quickly hooked his arm through his consultant’s and hastily led him away.
“What do you think his deal is today?” I asked, as I stooped to look into the cab’s back seat. “He was being friendly at first, but today? Methinks he be having a bad day, m’lady.”
Jillian giggled and then nodded. “He’s definitely grasping at straws. I can only assume it’s because we’re closer to figuring out who our mystery man is than they are.”
“How do you figure?” I asked, as I gently picked each corgi up and placed them inside the cab. Once seated next to Sherlock, I ruffled his fur and gave the driver the address to our hotel. “Granted, they couldn’t trace the phone call, but how does that translate to us knowing more than him?”
“Because,” Jillian patiently explained, “we keep managing to dig up additional leads, whereas he, as far as I can tell, hasn’t.”
Back at the hotel, the two of us had every intention of watching a movie in the room, in an attempt to wind down from a busy day, but the two of us, er, make that the four of us, were asleep before the opening credits had finished rolling.
* * *
“Where are we off to?” Tori had asked, when we met up the following day. “Do either of you have anything you want to see?”
“No plans here,” I had reported, drawing a nod from Jillian. “Do you have something the two of you would like to do?”
And that was why the four of us, with two dogs leading the way, were strolling down Decatur Street; Jillian and I, hand in hand, with a dog leash in each free hand. We stopped at the intersection of Esplanade Avenue and were waiting for the signal to indicate it was safe to proceed across. I glanced down at the dogs and saw that they both had their tongues out, were wearing their trademark corgi smiles on their faces, and were having the times of their lives.
The opposing traffic came to a stop and the signal switched from an angry red hand to a white walking man. I turned to my detective friend and nudged his shoulder.
“So, where are we heading? You said you’d tell us later. Is this later enough for you?”
“Well, I figured since we are in New Orleans,” Vance began, as we all headed out across the wide six-lane street, “and this is the birthplace of jazz music, that maybe we could stop by Frenchmen Street. There’s supposed to be a lot of history on that street.”
“Vance Samuelson, are you a fan of jazz music?” Jillian asked, surprised. “How is it that I never knew that about you?”
“It didn’t start out that way,” Tori said, as Jillian and I followed Tori and her husband across the wide Esplanade Avenue. “At first, he couldn’t stand it.”
“It grows on you,” Vance admitted, looking back at us with a sheepish smile on his face.
“And that’s where we’re headed now?” I inquired.
Vance raised an arm over his head by way of answering. Clutched in his hand was a tourist map of the area. Sensing an opportunity to tease my friend, I cleared my throat.
“Tori? I don’t suppose you happen to know where you’re going, do you? I think I trust you more than him when it comes to directions.”
“Smart man,” Tori giggled. “And, to set your mind at ease, I do.”
“Hey, I’m going in the right direction,” Vance complained. “You don’t have to make me sound like him.”
Everyone in our group knew that I alone possessed the worst sense of direction. However, I think that was starting to rub off on Vance, because he’s now been lost several times. The first was in a corn maze, which he swore up and down he could solve. For the record, he couldn’t, not even with the cheat sheet map he was given. The second time was in my home city of Phoenix, Arizona. Vance got so turned around while trying to get out of the airport that I was almost forced to take the keys from him. Thankfully, everything worked out in the end.
I felt Jillian’s hand squeeze mine as we walked. Glancing over at her, I saw that she was nodding her head in our friends’ direction. Seeing my querulous look, Jillian sighed.
“Zachary, have you let the two of them know about the plans your publisher made for tomorrow night?”
“I thought we were returning home tomorrow night?” Vance asked, confused.
“I told that to MCU last night,” I began. “Bella called just as we made it back to the room. MCU said they wanted her to see about asking us to stay an additional night, seeing how they’ve reserved the huge conference room at our hotel. They want to try again for another book signing. I tried to tell them you guys are needed back home, and we weren’t planning on making any appearances, but it turns out that a crazy number of hardcovers have been sold. Get this: readers have expressed interest in having the three of us sign the book.”
Tori’s head whipped around. “Me? They want me to sign your book, too?”
“What in the world for?” Vance asked.
“I wrote it,” I began, as I ticked off the fingers of my leash-wrapped hand, “but you’re the one who asked me to write it in the first place, pal. And finally, there’s Tori, who’s the inspiration behind your request in the first place. MCU said they have been receiving tons of requests from readers for all three of us to sign copies of Heart of Éire.”
“Sounds like fun!” Tori said, instantly agreeing. She caught sight of Vance’s frown and immediately took his hand in her own. Vance wiggled his arm this way and that, in an attempt to prevent Tori from digging her nails into his flesh, but it didn’t work. “Isn’t that right, dear? You’d be thrilled to sign however many books are placed in your hands, wouldn’t you?”
It might have been phrased like a question, but it sure didn’t sound like Tori expected an answer.
“When does this happen?” Vance wanted to know.
“Tomorrow afternoon, at 1 p.m.”
“We’ll be there. Tor? We’ll have to call my parents, and …”
“It’s already been handled,” Jillian assured our friend. “I talked to them earlier.”
“And work?” Vance pressed.
“Chief Nelson wants this case solved, remember?” I reminded my friend. “He was leaning toward giving you a couple of PTO days back, provided we can win this wager.”
Vance whistled with appreciation. “I don’t know how you pulled that one off, since the chief is stingy as a … well, let’s just say he doesn’t like to give back paid time off. Sure, why not? It’s the least we can do.”
Both corgis suddenly looked up at Vance and continued to watch him for at least the next couple of minutes. I was actually beginning to think that this would be the first time since the beginning of written records that Vance Samuelson, detective extraordinaire, did not have doggie biscuits with him. However, before I could think the thought, two biscuits were produced and presented to the dogs.
“You’re kidding,” I laughed. “Where were you hiding that bag? And how did you know you were going to need them?”
Vance shrugged, and was prepared to answer, when we caught sight of the street sign on the next intersection over.
“Frenchmen Street. That’s the one you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
“I may have some bad news for you, honey,” Tori suddenly announced. “I’ve been doing some research online. It looks like most of these places have live music …”
“How is that a bad thing?” Vance wanted to know. “That’s what I’d like to hear.”
“… in the evening,” Tori finished.
Vance’s face fell. “Oh. Well, maybe we can find a couple of street musicians, or maybe a corner band.”
“I think that only happens in the movies,” I said.
Tori pointed
about a block up the street. “Hey, there’s something that’s on the map.”
“What is it?” Vance asked, leaning around his wife to see for himself. “Igor’s Checkpoint Charlie’s? Seriously? What kind of a name is that? Any idea what it is?”
“Sounds like a bar,” I mused.
Vance nodded. “Yeah, it does to me, too.”
“Checkpoint Charlie’s,” Tori read aloud, “is a music club, founded by the late Igor Margan. Hmm, it says here that it openly classifies itself as a dive bar, has live concerts there, and … get this … is also part laundromat.”
“No freakin’ way,” Vance exclaimed, as we stopped in front of the bar, just shy of Frenchmen Street. “Should we go in?”
I pointed down at the dogs. “If you’d like to go in for a little, feel free. We’ll stay out here.”
“It says here that it’s a non-smoking establishment,” Tori read, “but I can see from the pictures that there are still people in there who smoke.”
“You sure you don’t mind?” Vance hopefully asked.
I nodded. “Sure, go ahead, pal. There’s a couple of benches right over there. We’ll be fine.”
Grateful to be off my feet, I lined my backside up with the bench and let myself fall unceremoniously into a sitting position. Probably not the smartest move, seeing how the benches were cast iron, but at that point, I didn’t care. Concerned, Jillian sat beside me and took my hand.
“Zachary, are you all right?”
“Oh, sure, I’m fine. Just grateful to be off my feet. How are the dogs doing?”
We both leaned forward to see what Sherlock and Watson were doing, only we needn’t have bothered. Both were stretched out near our feet and panting contentedly. Figuring the dogs might enjoy some water, I slipped my backpack off, retrieved the cheap plastic bowl I always add to their honest-to-goodness diaper bag, and emptied some water from one of the water bottles I had in pouches on either side of my pack.
They both took a drink, with Watson drinking a bit more than Sherlock. When the corgis were done, I capped the water (leaving the bowl out in case they wanted more) and leaned back to enjoy watching the many people walking past.
“I’m still in utter shock that you agreed to do a book signing,” Jillian said.
“It’s definitely not something I was planning on doing,” I admitted, “but this time around, more than I would have been affected. The royalty checks that have been coming? I thought Vance was going to pass out when I handed him the first. By the third one, I could tell that his whole outlook on writers had changed. Whether good or bad, I haven’t decided, but if doing some publicity for the book increases sales, which it typically does, then we all benefit.”
“That is very sweet of you,” Jillian decided.
“Vance said something similar. You know what? I’m glad.”
“Do you think they’ll ever be able to find our mystery man?” Jillian asked, after several minutes of a comfortable silence had passed. She held out a hand, encouraging me to pass her a bottle of water.
I looked down at the dogs. “If he’s here, then those two should be able to find him.”
“I was actually referring to the local police department,” Jillian said, smiling. “But, they’ll do, too.”
Sherlock looked up at Jillian. My fiancée reached down to scratch behind his ears, which I’m pretty sure made Sherlock drool. Not to be left out, Watson whined and tried to nudge Sherlock out of the way. After both dogs had received a well-deserved scratching, they settled down to take a nap.
“I’m still rather surprised that our prime suspect had the gall to call in to Charlie’s podcast,” I said. “And … how did he know I was there? I mean, he asked for me by name! I’m still trying to wrap my head around that.”
“I’ve been wondering that, too,” Jillian confessed. “That suggests he has some personal vendetta against you, but is that even possible? Are you aware of anyone who’d hold that much of a grudge against you?”
I looked at Jillian and grinned. “Really? Can’t you think of anyone?”
“Oh, come on,” Jillian giggled, as she swatted my arm. “You don’t have to worry about Abigail any more, and Taylor? She’s still in prison, and will continue to be for a very long time.”
I should explain. After inheriting my winery, the family who thought they’d be inheriting it hasn’t stopped blaming me for every problem they’ve got. If ever a family needed counseling, it was that one. What’s really sad is that they are part of my extended family, seeing how they’re distantly related to my late wife. But, is that a relationship I’m willing to pursue? Absolutely not.
“Besides,” Jillian continued, “I’m talking about someone locally. Or at the very least, from somewhere around this area. Can you not think of anyone else?”
“Not a one, I’m sorry to say. Hey, I like to think I’m a likeable guy! No, no matter how much I try, I can’t think of anyone who’d be willing to hurt others in the process, all in an attempt to get at me.” After considering the question for an additional few seconds, I shook my head. “Granted, I can get a temper on me, especially if I feel threatened, or think someone I care about is threatened. But, seeing how I haven’t really done any type of public appearance like this in, well, practically forever, I’d have to say no. MCU sprung this trip on me at the last minute, so I can’t imagine my presence pulled someone out of the woodwork, so to speak.”
Jillian retrieved her phone from her purse and began tapping the screen. Several minutes later, she triumphantly held it up.
“I’ve got the answer.”
“To what?” I wanted to know.
“About how our mystery man knew you’d be at Charlie Goodman’s podcast. Your MCU profile page has a calendar function on it. Someone had updated it to say you were going to be a guest that night.”
“Ah. Figures. At least that mystery is solved.”
Fifteen minutes later, Vance and Tori emerged from Checkpoint Charlie’s. Vance was holding a large shopping bag, which from my vantage point, looked as though it was stuffed to the brim with purchases. However, the one thing that both Jillian and I noticed was that the two of them had smiles on their faces, which I thought was very becoming. Not only that, they were swinging their clasped hands back and forth, like love-struck teenagers.
“That’s sweet,” Jillian quietly whispered in my ear.
I squeezed her hand in response.
“That place is really cool,” Vance said, as he and his wife arrived at our bench. I quickly scooted out of the way so Tori could take a seat. “You wouldn’t believe how much history that place has.”
“Whatcha got in there?” I inquired, pointing at the bag.
“I found some really cool things,” Vance began. He started pulling various items out of the bag. “All kinds of stuff, but the real treasure is this.”
A carefully wrapped package was produced. My friend eyed the package for a few moments before he started working on the string holding it together. Tori laid a hand over his.
“Perhaps we should wait until we’re back at the hotel. You paid a lot for that, and they did a great job packaging it up.”
“What is it?” Jillian asked.
“An autographed program from a 1948 jazz festival held in Nice, France,” Vance proudly proclaimed. “It’s been co-signed by so many jazz greats that I … I …”
“It was a lot of money,” Tori told us, “but thanks to you, Zack, we were able to purchase it. In fact, I spent the last ten minutes trying to convince Vance to buy it. He said it was too much money.”
“All right, I’ll bite,” I said. “Who’s signed it? I don’t think I really know of that many jazz legends.”
Vance looked at me and gave me a sheepish grin. “Oh, yeah? Think hard. Anyone who has heard any type of jazz music has heard this guy, and he signed my program!”
Jillian laughed delightedly. “Louis Armstrong.”
Vance reverently held the tightly wrapped package aloft. “You got it. T
his program, right here, is signed by the great Louis Armstrong himself. Isn’t that cool?”
“I’m happy for you, pal,” I told my friend, and I meant it. I held out my backpack. “Want to put that thing in here? There’s no sense carrying it around if you don’t have to.”
Tori nodded and took my pack. “Thanks, Zack. Look, dear. This backpack is designed to hold a laptop. It has the perfect place to put your memento.”
“Get anything else?” I asked, as I watched Tori carefully slide Vance’s prized program into the laptop pouch inside my backpack.
“A few trinkets, and a couple of souvenirs,” Vance told me. “But that? That’s the Holy Grail. Dude, I owe you big for this.”
“I didn’t buy that,” I argued. “That’s all you, pal.”
Vance turned and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “No, Zack, for all of this. If it wasn’t for you, then I never would have dreamed I’d drop ten grand on a signed program.”
“Ten grand?” I repeated, amazed. “Damn. One of these days you’re gonna have to show me that program of yours and tell me about everyone who has signed it.”
Vance and I bumped fists. “You’re on. Tori? Jillian? What’s the matter?”
At that exact moment, I heard both dogs woof a warning. Had something spooked them? Looking around the crowded block, I could only shrug. I didn’t have a clue what I should be looking at. But, since I know full well whenever we’re working a case, I needed to pay attention to whatever catches the dogs’ interest, I took out my cell and snapped some pictures as I slowly spun in place. There. That ought to make them happy.
“Awwwwooooooo,” Sherlock howled.
“Oooooooo,” Watson agreed, adding her own low, but cute as heck, howl to her packmate’s.
I held up my camera in front of them. “Look, guys. I took some pictures. That should make you happy, right?”
People who were in the process of passing stared at me as though I had sprouted a second head. I immediately pointed at the dogs.
Case of the Ragin' Cajun Page 10
