Death at the Door

by K. C. Greenlief

  He described his family’s twelve-thousand-acre cattle ranch and talked about how hard his brothers were now working to keep it in their family. He told her stories about his father’s adventures as an FBI agent and his mother’s obsession with antiques and junk that led her to open a small antique and collectibles shop on their ranch. His grades had gotten him a scholarship to Northwestern. He had fallen in love with Lake Michigan and the city life of Chicago and had never left.

  They finished their dinner with a shared piece of the restaurant’s famed white-chocolate bread pudding. Lacey felt like a blimp had take up residency in her stomach as she made her way down to the main floor of the restaurant.

  “Now we’d better walk off some of this food,” Russ said as they walked out onto noisy Canal Street. “We can go over to Bourbon Street and see the sights, maybe listen to a little music, or go up to the clubs on Frenchman Street and dance.”

  “I love to dance but it’s been a long day and I’m afraid that might wake up my headache.” She looked him up and down, studying his gangly limbs. “You don’t look like a dancer.”

  “Name one Irish guy you know who doesn’t have rhythm.” He stepped in, put his arms around her, and twirled her around, narrowly missing the people who were walking behind them. The crowd laughed and stepped out of the way, knowing that dancing in the streets of New Orleans was an everyday occurrence.

  “Which is closer, Frenchman or Bourbon?” Lacey asked.

  “Bourbon’s just a couple blocks away.”

  “Bourbon it is.”

  They strolled up Bourbon listening to the jazz and zydeco music that blared out of the bars and shops. Lacey couldn’t help but sashay to the beat of the music. They walked in and out of stores and darted into a little bar with a live jazz band when it started raining. They relaxed and listened to the music. Lacey relented and had a glass of wine. She was stunned when she looked down at her watch and saw that it was eleven o’clock.

  “Damn, we should get back to the hotel. We need to get up early to be at the auction house tomorrow.” She slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stood up.

  Russ reluctantly joined her. It was still raining when they got outside. They held hands and ran from awning to awning in a futile attempt to keep dry. After a couple of blocks, Lacey’s dress was soaked and clinging to her. Curly tendrils of wet hair hung down around her face. They ran to a sheltered doorway, laughing that it didn’t really matter because they were both already soaked. They huddled against each other to stay out of the rain.

  Lacey laughed up into Russ’s face and he bent and kissed her. He was an excellent kisser and she felt herself responding. He cupped her face in his hands so he could see her expression. “You’ve got it bad.” His eyes twinkled into hers.

  She pulled away and snorted. “You think I have it bad for you?”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “Honey, I’ve been around the barn three times with a ring in my nose and God knows how many times just for the hell of it. I know it when I seen it. The lips never lie.”

  “You are a crazy man,” she said as they trotted to another doorway.

  “I’m not the one who’s crazy.”

  “Well, it’s not me.” Lacey wiped wet curls out of her eyes and looked into the shop. Her face flushed when she noted the blowup dolls suspended from the ceiling and sex toys hanging from displays on the walls.

  “See anything you can’t live without?” Russ took her hand and pulled her into the shop. They walked under the dolls and past the racks of sex toys. He pulled her up the stairs to the latex and leather section. “What would he like?” He rubbed his chin as he scanned the displays.

  “Who?”

  “I don’t think he’s into S and M or spikes.” Russ fingered a spiked leather collar and let it drop back on its hook. “No, I think one of these black bustiers is more his thing.” He pulled a skimpy leather bustier off the rack. The bra cups were made of racy red lace that left almost nothing to the imagination. He held it out to Lacey. “You should get this. Trust me, he won’t be able to resist.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Lacey took the garment from him and walked over to the mirror on the wall. She held it up to herself and grinned wickedly.

  Russ walked up behind her. “Like I said, he won’t be able to resist.”

  “Russ, it’s kind of a turn-off to talk about yourself in the third person.” She met his eyes in the mirror. “It’s a technique I’d lose.”

  “You think I’m talking about myself?” He brought his hand to his chest. “I wish. I’m talking about Lark Swenson. You’ve got it bad for him and I think this will melt that ice cube he calls a heart.”

  Lacey pulled her eyes away from Russ’s and focused on the price tag. “Holy shit. They want an arm and a leg for this stuff. No thanks.” She hung it back on the rack and headed for the stairs.

  Russ was right behind her. “Look, I’m sorry if I went too far. It’s just obvious when the two of you are in the same room together that you’re very interested in each other.”

  Lacey clattered down the stairs and headed for the front door. Thankfully, it had stopped raining.

  Russ grabbed her shoulders once they got outside. “Let’s start over and forget all that ever happened. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Fine. How do we get back to the hotel?” Lacey looked up and down the street.

  “Come on.” Russ took her hand and led the way back to the Monteleone. They walked without talking, each of them deep in thought.

  “Let’s have one last drink in the bar before we go to bed.” He put his hand to her back to guide her toward the bar.

  “Tell you what. Let me get out of these wet clothes and I’ll come back down and have a drink with you.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.” Russ road up in the elevator with her to change his clothes.

  Lacey tossed her wet dress in the bathroom, wondering if a good dry cleaner could rescue it. She pulled on a pair of slacks, a blouse, and a pair of flats and went down to the bar. Surprisingly, she was there ahead of Russ.

  The bartender had just brought her a glass of wine when Russ sat down beside her. “Let’s start fresh. I’ve told you a lot about me. Tell me about yourself, your family. What do you like to do?”

  She twirled her wineglass, staring at the color and bubbles. “I’m from upstate New York. I have a degree in education and was a schoolteacher before I became a cop. My parents were killed a few years ago in a traffic accident in New York. They had gone to New York City to Christmas shop and see a couple of plays. The police were after some guys who had robbed a gas station. The thieves ran a red light and broadsided my parents’ car. Dad was dead at the scene and Mom never regained consciousness.”

  “How awful,” Russ said. “Injuries to innocent people are a cop’s worst nightmare.”

  Lacey nodded. “I don’t have any brothers or sisters. I like to read and”—she smiled over at him—“as you’ve already figured out, I like to dance. I love movies and I’m learning to cook.”

  “I’m sorry about your parents. I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose your family.” He waved the bartender down and ordered another beer. Lacey was still nursing her first glass of wine. “Between my four brothers and sisters, my cousins, my ex-wives, and my kids, there’s never a dull moment. It can get exhausting.”

  “I’ve always wondered what that would be like.”

  “Don’t you have aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  “I probably do. I just don’t know.” She stared into her glass. “I might even have brothers or sisters. I’m adopted. I didn’t find out until after my parents died.” Her laugh was without humor. “Just like in one of those Victorian romance novels, my parents left a letter explaining my adoption with their lawyer along with their will.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I wish I was. They lived in Wisconsin when they adopted me. That’s why I moved there.”

 
“Have you found your birth mother?”

  “Not yet. I can’t find any birth records for a week on either side of my birth date that fit my adoption. I’m stumped.”

  “When we get done with this case, I’ll help you look. I’ve done some adoption work.” He finished the last of his beer. “We’d better get to bed. We need to be down here in the lobby at nine tomorrow.” They headed for the elevator. Although his room was before hers, he insisted on walking her to her door.

  He smiled down at her and pulled her into his arms. “It’s killing me that you aren’t inviting me in. This never happens to me.” His smile widened. “Women are usually putty in my hands.” He kissed her forehead. “He’d be putty in your hands too if he just loosened up.” He put his finger to her lips before she could speak and snatched her key from her hand. “Be in the lobby at nine. Don’t make me have to come up here and get you.” He swung her door open and held his arm out as if to sweep her through the door. His eyes twinkled. “I’m getting a vision of you in that bustier. You have to go back and buy it before we leave.”

  “Not on your life, Russ,” Lacey said as she shut her door.

  She could hear him laughing as he walked down the hall.

  Tuesday Morning

  June 5—Robicheau Auction House,

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Despite the wine, Lacey slept like a log for the first time since she’d been hit in the head. She had breakfast in the hotel restaurant and got to the lobby at exactly 9 A.M. Russ got off the elevator just as she arrived. They took a cab to the Robicheau auction house on Magazine Street. They got to Obie’s office just ahead of his assistant, who informed them that Aimee Longet had arrived.

  Obie escorted them to a conference room unlike any Lacey had ever seen and then left to get Aimee. Russ called the New Orleans police, who had asked to be present for the questioning while Lacey studied the conference room. Obie told them that the beautiful paneling was cherry. Ornate cherry moldings a foot wide were at the top of the twelve-foot ceiling. The conference table was also cherry, as were the chairs that surrounded it. Three crystal chandeliers hung at regular intervals down the center of the room. Modern can lighting had been installed to enhance the floor-to-ceiling bookcases on all four walls. Lacey’s study of the room was interrupted when Obie entered with a tall, striking woman in a white suit. Her blond hair was pulled up on her head in a French twist. She sat down across the table from them and smiled.

  “My dear, these people came all the way from Wisconsin to speak with you about the antiques you have in my auction today.” Obie glanced at Russ and Lacey as he pulled a chair out and sat down.

  Obie started to introduce them but Aimee stood up and walked to the door. “I’m sorry but I cannot talk with anyone right now. I’m very emotional about my grandmother’s death. Having to sell her things just about breaks my heart.” She looked at Obie with tears glistening in her eyes. She ignored Russ and Lacey as if they weren’t in the room. “Please call me when the auction is over.”

  Russ stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. “Were you this upset when you sold your grandmother’s things in Seattle and in Portland?”

  She attempted to walk by him but he threw his hand up against the doorjamb and blocked her exit. “It must have been terrible when you had to sell them again in Los Angeles and in San Francisco.”

  “I have never been so insulted in my life.” She turned around to Obie. A blind person could have sensed her anger.

  “It was never my intention to insult you,” Obie said. He motioned for Russ to close the door, worried that customers out in the showroom might hear her. “I also have no intention of selling stolen goods in one of my auctions. Please sit down so we can clear this up.” His voice had become pure steel.

  “Please remove my items from your auction immediately and have them delivered to my hotel. I will not do business with a man of your ethics.” Aimee brushed past Russ and opened the door. Her departure was stopped by a tall, beefy New Orleans policeman. His nametag read Detective Ladeau. She tried to get around him but he took her shoulders and spun her around and back into the room. He walked her to the table and stood over top of her until she took a seat. Russ laid a set of papers and photographs in front of her. She looked stunned.

  He tapped a photograph. “This is you at the Wetheralls Auction House in Seattle, and this is the list of antiques they sold for you.” He slid the photographs and paper back and put down a second set in front of her. “This is you at Goridano Auctions and Antiques in Oregon. This is the list of what they sold for you.”

  Her face was expressionless.

  Russ put a third set of papers down on the table. “Here you are Cristofle’s in Los Angeles.” He plopped the fourth set in front of her. “Remember Sabatini’s in San Francisco?” Russ put his hands down on the table and leaned into her face.

  She looked up at him, her expression venomous. “What’s your point?”

  Russ held out another paper. “This is a list of property stolen from several houses in Door County, Wisconsin. The yellow-highlighted items are the ones you’ve already sold at the auctions. The green-highlighted items are things you have up for sale in this auction. That’s about eighty percent of the list.”

  Aimee took the list, flipped through it, and dropped it on the table. “These things aren’t one of a kind. You could find most of them for sale at auctions around the world or on eBay during any given week.”

  “Not the Noah’s Ark set or the Civil War swords you’ve got in this auction,” Obie said.

  Aimee stood up. “Mr. Robicheau, please have my items packed and sent to the Bienville Guest House. I will have no further dealings with you.” She once again tried to walk to the door.

  Detective Ladeau stepped in front of her. “Ms. Longet, you’re under arrest for the possession and attempted sale of stolen goods. You have the right to remain silent—”

  “I know my rights and I want an attorney.”

  “We’ll be at the station on Royal,” Ladeau said after reading her her rights. He walked out the door with Aimee in handcuffs.

  “She’s one tough cookie.” Russ gathered up his papers.

  Obie sat down at the table and studied each of the photographs. In one her hair was up, in another it was down; she wore glasses in one but not in another. Her hair was light in one picture and dark in another. “It took some brains and ingenuity to think this up.”

  They decided that Robicheau’s would send all of Aimee’s items to the Royal Street police station. Russ and Lacey would then negotiate with the New Orleans police for their release to the Wisconsin State Police. They thanked Obie for his help and left just in time for Obie to kick off his auction.

  It was a short walk to the Eighth District Police Station. Lacey was stunned when she realized which building they were going to.

  “This isn’t like any police station I’ve ever seen.” She stopped in the courtyard and starred up at the elegant stucco facade of the building. “Cops sure do rate down here.”

  “This is the old Bank of Louisiana building. It was built in the early 1800s. If memory serves me right, it was also the capitol of Louisiana for a while during the Civil War.”

  “Why in the world would they use it as a police station?” Lacey asked as they walked through the front door and asked the officer at the desk for Detective Ladeau.

  “Why not? They needed someplace big enough to hold a police station in the heart of the Quarter. This was built as a commercial building so it’s perfect.” Their conversation was brought to a halt by the arrival of Detective Ladeau. Russ stood and they shook hands. He asked them both to call him Burt.

  “I’ve got to hand it to your little gal. As soon as she was processed, she asked for a phone book and went like a heat-seeking missile right to New Orlean’s most notorious criminal attorney. Andrea Sinead just happened to be available and will be here any minute. You all are in for a real treat.”

  A petite woman with short, b
right red hair shot through the door of the station. She saw Ladeau and charged over to his side. She seemed to be oblivious to the extreme differences in their size. Even in three-inch stiletto heels, she came to the middle of Burt’s chest. Although her clothes were age-appropriate, Lacey was sure she had to buy them in the Young Miss department. As she took a closer look at the woman’s tailored black suit, she decided that it was custom-made. When Ms. Sinead bent over to put her briefcase down, Lacey decided that her cleavage was also a custom job. She rested her hand on Burt’s arm as she talked with him, and Lacey noticed that her long, well-manicured nails were the same shade as the red highlights in her hair. Burt introduced Andrea to them and then, at her insistence, took her back to see her client.

  “Wow,” Russ said as he watched her walk away. “There goes a piece of work.”

  “Barracuda would be my guess.”

  “She’s got a great pair a bazombas to be so petite.” Russ balanced his hands in front of his chest.

  “I hate to burst your bubble, but they’re not real.” Lacey patted his arm.

  “Who cares?”

  “Her hair color is fake too. It’s all wrong for her skin tone. Her natural color is probably dark brown.”

  Russ shot Lacey an evil grin. “I know how to find out, and I’d sure like to give it a try.”

  Lacey snorted. “On this broad, that’s probably dyed too or maybe even waxed off.”

  “Oh, God, be still my heart.”

  “What’s with you guys?” Lacey asked, irritated at his antics.

  He put his arm around her. “Since you didn’t grow up with any brothers, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Men love a good fantasy. For most of us, the trip is just as important as the destination. Keep that in mind.” He squeezed her shoulders and let her go.