Only Evangeline had the presence of mind to act. She stood, grimly silent until, with her voice quiet and level, she said, “I think we better call Johnson.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DETECTIVE JOHNSON LOOKED ready to burst with rage. He was an intimidating presence at the best of times, but when he arrived at the Funky Cat just minutes after Evangeline had phoned him, his large body was so taut that it looked as though his muscles might snap at any moment.
They had closed the door to the room where Dash’s body lay. No one could bear to look at him, and they congregated in the upstairs hallway in a silent huddle. Michael had stopped crying and was pacing back and forth, shaking his head. He was almost as white as Dash was. Evangeline and Roxy stood by the window, Roxy staring out of it blankly. Sylvia sat on the stairs with Nat, her arms around Nat’s shoulders, while next to them was Elijah, who leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. Lily was slightly aloof and leaned against the wall a few feet from the others. Even Ada didn’t have anything to say.
Johnson exploded up the stairs. “Another death? What is this? The Doomsday Hotel?” he raged. “This cannot be real.”
Roxy was too stunned to speak, but Evangeline didn’t have the same reserve. Her brow furrowing, she spat out, “How can you…”
But Johnson was not in the mood to be interrupted. “This is starting to look very suspicious, Ms. Evangeline, Ms. Reinhardt. Very suspicious indeed. This is the second dead body found in or around your hotel in the space of a few months. Is there something going on here that I should know about?”
A small wave of energy rippled through the group of influencers for whom reports of an earlier death was news. No one said anything, but a look here, a shift in posture there, indicated they had heard what Johnson had said and had taken note. Roxy couldn't believe the audacity of the man. He was trash-talking her business in front of guests, her guests, the people essential to the business’ success. Even for him, it was a new low.
In the past, in the face of such hostility and humiliation, she would have cowered and willed herself to disappear, but this was the new Roxy. Outraged, she drew herself up to her full height, which wasn’t too tall in truth but was the best she could do. “Detective,” she said sternly. “This is Michael, Dashiell Davies’ best friend and business partner. It was Michael who found Dash’s body. What do you have to say about that?”
Michael turned to the detective and stared him down with a look so penetrating it would have pierced right through anyone else. But Johnson was unfazed. “Humph. I’m sorry for your loss, but it's not my job to be your therapist,” he said. “It's my job to investigate, and if there are suspicious circumstances, to find out who did this and bring them to justice.” Michael looked away and closed his eyes. Unperturbed, Johnson continued, “The next step is to secure the crime scene and get forensic evidence. I will be interviewing y’all personally.” He stared at Roxy and squinted. “Especially you. Don't you think it’s a coincidence that all of these deaths started happening when you rocked up in town?”
“That's so unfair!” Nat burst out. Roxy was touched that Nat was sticking up for her. Nat’s expired visa and her questionable immigration status meant that she usually tried to fade into the background whenever the police were around. “Of course this has nothing to do with Roxy!” Nat continued. “Why would it? She's just trying to live her life and run this hotel the best she can.”
“A touching, if irrelevant, story,” Johnson said.
But Nat wasn’t to be dismissed. “This is a very serious situation and very stressful for our business. We would appreciate it if you didn’t go around accusing us at every given opportunity!”
“Look, do you think we can focus on what’s important here? Like the fact that my friend and business partner is lying dead in his bed!” Michael cried. Chastened, Nat looked down at her feet. Not chastened at all, Johnson ignored him.
“So where's the body?” he asked. Roxy pointed to the bedroom door a few feet away. “Okay, everyone,” he continued. “Go downstairs and get ready for questioning. I am going to bring the forensics team in now. None of you must be in this area.” They all waited for what he would say next, and he glared back at them as if they were idiots. “Well, go on then. Get a move on!” Obediently, they all trooped downstairs. All, that is, except for Roxy and Ada.
Ada faced Johnson squarely and put her perfectly manicured hand on her hip. “There's no way I am going down there without changing into something more suitable.” She gestured down at her blue sundress. “This is not a suitable thing to wear after a death.”
Johnson looked at her as though she were a one-eyed, many-limbed alien. “Excuse me?” he said in a tone that would shut down anyone else.
“My father has links with the Chief of Police and Prosecutions in Nigeria,” Ada said. “I will not be told what to do by some provincial, small-town detective.”
Roxy felt herself shrink a couple of inches. Johnson’s eyes gleamed nastily.
“Ada,” Roxy said in a half-warning, half-laughing tone. Was an influencer with a fan base of nearly three-quarters of a million about to be thrown in a New Orleans city police cell? An influencer who was only here because Roxy had invited her? She half-expected Johnson to charge Ada with obstructing a police investigation.
“I think you should stop right there, Miss,” Johnson said, side-eyeing Ada and squinting as he assessed the creature before him.
But Ada did not stop. “I think you are a bad boy,” she said, wagging her finger at him, “a very bad boy, throwing your weight around and accusing people. I know your kind. My father was targeted by your types when he became successful in business. His competitors wanted him out, but we Okafors do not bow to such pressure. There is nothing wrong with me going upstairs and changing my clothes. Or do you think that I might grab my Gucci handbag and kill someone on the way down? Or hide evidence in my Louis Vuitton carry-on? Types like you are absolutely ridiculous. Surely, if you let me go upstairs to change, that is not too much to ask? I will be back down within five minutes.”
Johnson raised his chin. Ada’s finger was still extended. They were like two bulls in a standoff. For a moment, there was a tense silence. They glared at each other.
Johnson blinked first. “Do whatever you want,” he growled. “I don’t have time for this.”
Ada’s eyelashes quivered on hearing these words. She turned to float upstairs like a queen ascending a grand staircase, her head held high, dignified and victorious. Roxy's jaw almost dropped to the floor. It seemed the detective had met his match!
CHAPTER TWELVE
JOHNSON’S EXPRESSION WAS impassive, but as he tore his eyes away from Ada, he noticed that Roxy was still there. He gave a little jump, and his face turned an even deeper shade of purple. “What is it now?” he barked.
Roxy gulped but gathered herself to speak. She wanted to sound confident. She still didn’t find confrontation easy, but she was getting braver at dealing with it. “I wanted to let you know we’re in the middle of an Instagram campaign.”
“A what?” he said.
“It’s a marketing thing,” Roxy explained.
“And what makes you think that interests me in the slightest?” he said. “Move. Go away. I need to enter this room, and I don’t want you contaminating evidence.”
“I need to let you know that,” said Roxy, taking her cue from Ada and holding firm—just, “well, it’s that my guests might photograph or video things. The people here are famous to their Instagram tribes. Between them, they have hundreds of thousands of followers. They make their living by producing videos and beautiful images. People watch them online. I wondered if it might interfere with the investigation.” Roxy kept her voice even, but it was quivering a little.
Johnson looked incredulous. “Right,” he said. “So the crazy modern world has finally infiltrated New Orleans, has it?” He sighed. “Today is a sad day, Ms. Reinhardt.” He looked at Roxy disapprovingly as if she were person
ally responsible for this invasion. “I know nothing of this, and I don't wish to know anything of this. Just make sure to tell them that until I say so, there is to be no more photography or video. If there is, they will be charged, and I will slap the handcuffs on them myself.”
Roxy felt a shiver go through her. There was something about this man that got under her skin and made her want to run away as fast as possible in the other direction.
“Okay,” she said. She managed to manufacture a smile. “I'll go and tell them now.”
When she got downstairs, everyone except Michael was nibbling on beignets and sipping the brandy milk punch that Evangeline had made “for the shock.”
“I can't believe that guy!” Nat said when she saw Roxy. “Who does he think he is? Why does he have to be so rude?”
“Will you pipe down, cher?” said Evangeline. “He’s just doing his job.”
“No, I will not pipe down,” Nat shot back. “Anyway, I don't see why you're defending him. He’s not exactly your greatest fan, is he?”
Evangeline sipped her punch and let out a deep long sigh.
“Johnson says that nobody is to record. No pictures, no video,” said Roxy to the room.
Michael looked up from where he sat curled silently in an armchair. “How dare he,” he said, quiet and deadly. “He can’t tell us what we can and can’t do in the wake of a tragedy. In any case, it's too late. I was recording an Instagram video when I went into Dash’s room. The whole world knows about it already.”
Roxy took a second to register Michael’s comment before the full implications of what he was saying hit her. She put her hands to her head. “No, no, no,” she whispered. If it weren't for the guests on every side of her, she would have crawled into a fetal position and rocked back and forth at this news. When she had considered the wisdom of the influencer campaign, the worst she imagined was a few bad reviews. She never considered the possibility that an unexplained death would be beamed from her hotel live across the whole planet.
Just then, there was a series of knocks at the door that turned into a rain of hammer blows. Roxy practically jumped out of her skin. She flinched so hard that she elbowed Evangeline, who was standing next to her causing her to spill her punch on the floor.
“Oh sorry, sorry,” Roxy said. “Who could that be?”
“It’s probably the forensic team,” said Lily. She looked coolly at Roxy. “Would you like me to answer?”
“No, no,” said Roxy. “It’s my responsibility.” She felt like she was living a nightmare: an influencer dying in her hotel that was full of other influencers recording everything as a testimony. And she’d thought the Versace dress incident was bad enough.
Roxy walked into the hallway and with a sharp exhale opened the door. She expected to see people in white suits standing on the step with bags full of investigating equipment. Instead, the scene that greeted her when she swung open the heavy wooden door was far worse than that.
“Arghh!” She was blinded by a flash. Then another flash, then another. Flash, flash, flash!
“Roxy Reinhardt?” a woman shouted. A microphone was shoved into Roxy’s face. A crowd of other men and women—all waving phones, cameras, notepads, pens, or microphones—pushed and jostled in front of her.
“Uh… yes?” she said, blinking. Roxy turned her head to protect her eyes from a flash only to be assailed by another. She was so stunned she couldn't move. She stood on the doorstep of the Funky Cat Inn protecting her eyes with her hand and noiselessly opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish as the frenzy in front of her refused to abate.
Suddenly, Roxy was grabbed from behind and pulled back into the hallway. Nat slammed the door shut and pressed her back against it for good measure. Only then did Elijah loosen his tight grip on Roxy’s shoulders.
“Reporters!” Roxy cried. A couple of angry tears streamed down her face. She wiped them away furiously. “This is too much!”
Evangeline joined them. She shook her head. “No time for tears and shouting, cher,” she said. “We've got to make sure those reporters don't start putting cameras at the windows. You know they're going to be looking in from every angle.
“She’s right, Roxy,” Elijah said. “This is the hottest story out there right now, and I guarantee it’s only going to get worse. My brother worked for a politician caught in a scandal and what those reporters will do for a story would make your short li’l blonde locks curl.”
“But how can that be?” said Roxy. “We found him dead barely ten minutes ago.”
“It was live on Instagram,” said Nat. “This is a huge story.”
“One that's only goin’ to get bigger,” said Evangeline. “A virus, isn’t that what you called it? The news will spread like wildfire. He was a celebrity of sorts, right? This isn't going to go away, cher. You need to face it.”
Roxy felt trapped. She could hear the clamor of reporters outside. “But what about when we want to go out?” she said. “What if they push their way in?”
“For now we’re stuck inside unless the police decide to help us out on that score.” Evangeline threw her eyes up to the ceiling. “And I doubt that very much.”
Roxy felt sick to her stomach.
Evangeline was not generally a hugging type of person, but now she put her arm around Roxy and patted her shoulder. “None of this is your fault, cher,” she said kindly. “Don't be too hard on yourself, and don't get caught up in too many emotions, y’hear? You need to stay strong for the guests and make sure that everyone is okay. The world is watching. We can turn this around. Guests remember how you respond when there is a problem much more than when everything goes well. Lemons to lemonade, cher.”
“She’s right, Roxy. Give the world an excellent impression of the hotel, despite being at the center of a crisis. You can do it. We’ve all worked too hard to give up now.” Elijah snapped his fingers and sashayed in a tight circle around the lobby, his head rocking from side to side.
As she watched him, Roxy instantly felt better. Evangeline was right. Roxy had read in The Hotelier, the #1 industry magazine, that what the customer service people remembered the most was not when everything was going swimmingly but rather it was when a guest was upset and the hotel took steps to rectify their problem. Well, the Funky Cat certainly had a problem now and her guests were certainly upset.
Summoning the strength from somewhere, Roxy clapped her hands together with a burst of energy. She was being looked to for leadership. “Let’s show them that we can handle a crisis, the worst kind of crisis. Come on, people!” She didn’t feel quite as confident as she sounded, but she was determined to take another crack at turning the situation around. She was going to do this.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
WHILE DETECTIVE JOHNSON questioned the guests and staff, the forensics team were let in to the hotel and got to work. Johnson gave the press a stern warning not to come inside, and almost blocked Sage too, but eventually let her in. She, together with Nat and Elijah, worked to cover up the windows with trash bags secured with white strips of tape. This made Roxy feel sad.
“My gorgeous boutique hotel looks like it’s in the middle of a war zone or in the path of a hurricane that’s about to pass through,” she said.
“Yeah, it looks and feels completely and utterly wrong, but it’s necessary,” Elijah said. When the chips were down, Elijah, for all his flouncing, custom cupcakes, and proclivity for partying could be pretty practical. “It won’t be for long. We’ll all be here to tear it down when this is over, and those horrible reporters have gone away.”
Unable to leave, the guests and staff played board games and charades, and Evangeline kept everyone’s spirits up with a never-ending supply of punch and café au lait. She rustled up po’boys and salad for lunch. Eventually, they all dispersed for an early afternoon nap, leaving Roxy alone in the lounge.
She sat down in a squishy armchair, her chin propped on her fist. There was a little squeak, and she looked down to see that Nefertiti
had decided to join her. The fluffy white cat wound her body between Roxy’s legs, the softness of her fur soothing her owner like a blanket. Roxy bent over to pick her cat up and plop her in her lap.
“Nef-nef, I’m trying to be brave. I’m trying to keep my spirits up. But it’s hard, you know?” She stuck her nose into Nefertiti’s fur and lay her cheek on the cat’s back. It was like lying on the softest of soft white pillows.
“Come on, girl. Let’s tidy this place up.” Roxy stood and, with a mewl of protest, Nefertiti was dropped to the wooden floor.
As Roxy was picking up the used plates, Detective Johnson appeared. He looked grumpy and was chewing on a pen.
“Would you like something to eat, Detective?”
“Uh, no,” Johnson said. As an afterthought, he added, “Thanks.”
Roxy waited for him to say something, but when Johnson continued to chew on his pen, she asked, “Are you done here now? Can we get on with things?”
The detective sighed. “Yeah, seems no one saw or heard anything. According to them, they were all in their beds until morning. We’ll see what they have to say down at the morgue about the cause of death, but you can go about your day. Just don’t let anyone leave town until we know more about what happened here.” Johnson appeared distracted. He made to leave, before turning back to face Roxy. “Tell me,” he said wagging his pen at her. “There was a half-eaten cupcake on a plate beside the deceased’s bed. And a thermos with the dregs of something milky inside it. There was a faint whiff of liquor. What was that?”
“We gave the influencers personalized cupcakes and brandy milk punch as a nightcap last night.”
New Orleans Nightmare Page 5
