Garden of Forbidden Secrets

by Eric Wilder

  “Damn rain’s about to bankrupt me,” he said.

  A steady drizzle of rain was falling outside. Through the windows, I could see a Lucky Dog wrapper floating down the flooded street. The sidewalks were empty, rain keeping the tourists in their hotel rooms.

  “You’ll survive,” I said. “You haven’t bought anything new for this place since I’ve known you. What do you do with all the money you make in this little goldmine?”

  Bertram brushed a dark wisp of hair that had fallen down over his forehead, and then tweaked his mustache.

  “You seen my bills lately?” he said. “I’m lucky if I break even every month.”

  “Quit whining, Bertram. I don’t believe a word you’re saying.”

  Bertram ducked under the bar, poured himself a shot of Cuervo and an icy glass of lemonade for me.

  “Seen Eddie lately?”

  “He’s keeping a low profile, trying to decide whether to marry Josie Castellano.”

  “Frankie and Adele were here last night. Sounded to me like Eddie don’t have much choice.”

  Adele was a friend. Assistant Federal D.A. Eddie Toledo and I were eating in Adele’s Italian restaurant in Metairie the night local mob boss Frankie Castellano had walked in the door. Love had ensued, the couple still enamored with each other after two years of marriage. Josie was Frankie’s strong-minded daughter who had fallen in love with perennial bachelor, Eddie.

  “Maybe that’s why we haven’t seen him in a while. I can’t see Eddie ever settling down with any woman, no matter how attractive, rich, or intelligent she might be.”

  “You could be right,” he said as he slugged the shot and then poured himself another. “It bother you how much Josie looks like Desire?”

  “At first it did.”

  “You over her yet?” he asked.

  “I’ll never be totally over Desire. At least I’ve resolved her loss in my mind.”

  “She’s one drop-dead gorgeous woman. Too bad things didn’t work out,” Bertram said. “What has happened to her?”

  It took me a moment before I could answer. “Missionary work in Africa. I doubt she’ll ever return to New Orleans.”

  I’d met Desire Vallee while working on a problem for her father, Gordon. The case had ended badly, both Gordon and Desire’s twin sister dying tragically. Their deaths were also the end of my short-lived affair with the most exciting woman I’d ever known.

  “Sorry to bring it up,” Bertram said. “Have a new woman on your radar?”

  “I’m done with relationships. Everyone I’ve had lately has ended badly.”

  “Gotta admit,” Bertram said. “You’re pretty tough on women. What about Mama Mulate? You two ever hooked up?”

  “Though we’ve come close a time or two, our business relationship is more important to us than a love affair.”

  “I hear that,” Bertram said. “How’s it working out for you?”

  “We haven’t done anything businesswise in a while,” I said.

  “I can’t remember how you got to be partners,” Bertram said.

  “Mama performed a voodoo séance for a rich client of mine. He was so impressed, he told all his wealthy friends about us. For a while, we had more paranormal related business than we could handle. Clients wanting us to contact dead relatives, or find lost graves.”

  “You’ve done lots of cases that didn’t involve Mama Mulate,” Bertram said.

  “It’s just a loose partnership,” I said. “Mama’s still an English professor at Tulane, and I’ve continued working cases even when she isn’t involved.”

  Before I could expound further about my relationship with Mama Mulate, someone Bertram and I both knew entered the bar. It was Eddie Toledo looking professional in an expensive pin-striped suit.

  “Well, look what the cat drug in,” Bertram said. “We were just talking about you. What the hell are you doing here on a Monday morning?”

  “I just got fired, and I need a drink.”

  Eddie’s words came as a shock. He’d worked for the government since graduating as valedictorian from the University of Virginia law school. I’d fully expected him to retire with the Feds. From the look on his face, so did he. Bertram quickly poured Eddie a double scotch and pushed the glass across the bar.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “The powers downtown apparently thought I’d gotten a little too close to Frankie Castellano,” he said.

  Eddie had dark hair and eyes, his hair a bit too long to fit the image of a federal prosecutor. Women had a hard time resisting him, and he couldn’t resist women. Though he’d fallen hard for the beautiful daughter of a mob boss, my money was betting he’d wind up as a life-long bachelor.

  “You’ve always kept that relationship with Frankie at arm’s length,” I said. “What changed?”

  “The rumor I was marrying the Don of the Bayou’s daughter.”

  “We heard it was more than a rumor,” Bertram said.

  “I have to admit, I was resigned to taking the plunge,” Eddie said.

  “You changed your mind?” I asked.

  “Josie changed it for me. She said she would never marry a cheater. I told her I had changed. My best defense failed to convince her.”

  “Bummer,” I said. “Frankie and Adele had their hearts set on an April wedding. How are they taking it?”

  “They both feel sooner or later Josie will change her mind. Me, I’m not so sure about it.”

  Eddie slugged his drink, and Bertram poured him another.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “I have no job, no car, and my resume just took a professional hit. I do have an opportunity on the table,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Frankie must have known what was going down because he called me with an offer this morning.”

  “One you can’t refuse?” Bertram said.

  “I have alternatives. I could put out my shingle and go into private practice.”

  “Because of your position with the Feds, you’ve probably met every influential person in town,” I said. “You could make a killing in private practice.”

  “Don’t know if I’m cut out to represent white collar scumbags.”

  “Why not?” Bertram said. “You’d soon be driving a Porsche, living in the Garden District, and golfing at the country club on the weekends. Hell, they might even make you president of the Boston Club.”

  “Funny, Bertram,” Eddie said.

  “What sort of offer did Frankie have for you? His consigliere?”

  “Adele and Frankie still want me to marry Josie. They both know she’d have no part of me if I became Frankie’s mob attorney.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  “A developer built a weekend getaway destination east of here in the late twenties. It’s on an island with access by water to the Mississippi River, Lake Pontchartrain, Lake Bourne, and it abuts the Gulf of Mexico. It had a marina, a restaurant, and a dozen or so vacation homes. The development gradually declined because of its lack of infrastructure.”

  “What’s the name of this place?” I asked.

  “Oyster Island.”

  “And?” Bertram said.

  “Frankie offered to give me the restaurant and bar, and all the property that goes with it.”

  “In exchange for what?” I asked.

  “He wants to redevelop the property and for me to be the mayor.”

  “What good is a restaurant and bar if you ain’t got no customers?” Bertram asked.

  “The place is like a little resort community. Frankie says if we update the infrastructure and then advertise the hell out of it, customers and new weekend homeowners will flock there.”

  “What about hurricanes, flooding and global warming?” I asked.

  “Frankie paid a consulting firm to do an engineering and geological study of the island. Seems it’s located in just the right spot to receive a yearly influx of new sediment coming from down river. The island is sheltered by barrier
islands and rises six feet above sea level. The study satisfied all of Frankie’s questions about risking millions of dollars on development.”

  “So he’s giving you the restaurant and bar?” Bertram said.

  “I have to pay him back out of profits, but the loan is non-recourse. If the plan doesn’t work, I walk. No harm, no foul.”

  “Except you’ll be out the months or years you put into it,” I said.

  Bertram poured Eddie another scotch and a shot of Cuervo for himself.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Eddie said. “I was hoping Bertram would visit the island with me and give me his assessment of whether or not the plan has a snowball’s chance in hell of succeeding.”

  “Asking for ’ol Bertram’s help means you ain’t half as dumb as I thought you was. When you want to go?”

  Ignoring Bertram’s remark, Eddie said, “I’ve got nothing on my dance card. How about now?”

  Bertram glanced around the bar, and then at me. “Can you hold the fort down while I’m gone?”

  “Why not?” I said. “The place isn’t exactly overflowing with customers.”

  When Bertram whistled, his dog Lady, a beautiful cognac-colored collie, sauntered out of the kitchen, wagging her tail when she saw Eddie and me.

  “Come on, girl. We’re gonna take a little road trip with Eddie. Be back when you see me,” Bertram said as they disappeared through the kitchen.

  ***

  A month had passed since I’d collected a retainer from a paying customer. Like Eddie, I had nothing on my dance card and was behind the bar polishing a glass when Mama Mulate walked through the door. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and I ducked under the bar to give her a big hug.

  “Where’s Bertram?” she asked.

  “Long story,” I said.

  “Give me a synopsis.”

  “On a wild goose chase with Eddie Toledo. I’m stuck tending bar until they return. What’s up?”

  “Tickets to the Pels game tonight,” she said, flashing them for me to see. “Can you go with me?”

  “You kidding? I love the Pels, and I haven’t been to a game this year. Who gave you the tickets?”

  “They arrived in the mail, along with ten new hundred dollar bills. There was a cryptic message.”

  “That said?”

  “Mama, I need your help. Please accept these tickets and the money as a retainer. After the game, meet me on the top floor at the Riverfront. It’s signed T.D.”

  “Wow! The Riverfront’s one of the most expensive restaurants in town,” I said.

  “Check out these seats,” she said. “Courtside. They had to cost a few thousand dollars each.”

  “Double wow,” I said.

  “Who do you think we’re dealing with?” she asked.

  “Someone with lots of money. Maybe a professional athlete. The Riverfront is a favorite hangout for pros from almost every sport.”

  “I’ve never been there,” Mama said. “What’s it like?”

  “Never been there, either, though I hear it has a magnificent view of the river. The cuisine, I hear, is Creole and Italian.”

  “Then are you in?”

  “You bet I am. I wouldn’t pass up a free pro basketball ticket even if it were in the nosebleed section. I’ve never had a seat so close to the floor.”

  “What if Bertram isn’t back?” Mama asked.

  “I’ll find someone to watch the place,” I said.

  “Then I’ll pick you up out front, around six,” she said.

  She waved as she hurried out the door, a blast of chilly air flooding into Bertram’s empty bar behind her.

  Chapter 6

  Bertram Picou’s Ford truck, the first new vehicle he’d ever owned, was bright red. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he loved the big vehicle. Having the entire backseat to herself, so did Lady.

  “Your truck is awesome,” Eddie Toledo said. “I thought you’d never get rid of Old Betsy. What made you do it?”

  “I wouldn’t trade old Betsy for nothing,” he said. “She’s in my garage, under a canvas cover. It was Lady that wanted this one.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Cousin Ezra sells Fords. He come up for a visit in his new truck. Lady loved it so much, I thought she was gonna go home with him. He made me a family deal I couldn’t pass on.”

  “You did good,” Eddie said. “This truck is a beauty.”

  “You right about that,” Bertram said.

  Lady barked in the backseat as if seconding Bertram’s assessment of the new truck. A drizzling rain had followed them out of New Orleans, the wipers of the Ford beating a slow tympani as they tooled down the rural road. They’d exited the main highway shortly after leaving the city. So far, Bertram hadn’t consulted a map.

  “You sure you know where you’re going?” Eddie asked.

  “I got kinfolk all over the state,” Bertram said. “I know these roads like the back of my hand. My daddy and me visited Oyster Island when I was a kid.”

  A cypress swamp bordered one side of the byway, rain dimpling the coffee-colored water. A flock of brown egrets was landing, joining a handful of cows grazing in the open pasture on the side of the road.

  “Which way is the river?” Eddie asked.

  “That ridge you see is a natural levee. The river’s on the other side of it. Indians had a trail on the ridgeline. This road follows the old Indian trail.”

  “There were Indians around here?”

  “You bet they was,” Bertram said. “Long before the French and Spanish ever got here.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “Hell!” Bertram said. “I’m part Indian myself. They just kinda mingled in with the population, I guess.”

  “I guess,” Eddie said. “How much farther to Oyster Island?”

  “The old bridge is over the next rise,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  Bertram’s memory had faded over the years. It was another five miles further before they topped a small hill and saw the island that gave the old settlement its name. The low-lying bridge was just large enough for one vehicle at a time. The crystal water beneath them was shallow, large fish clearly visible.

  A sandy beach stretched from the rolling countryside down to the blue water of the Gulf of Mexico. It wasn’t the pristine beach, the gulls flying lazily overhead, or the solitude of the scene that caught Eddie’s attention. It was the wooden edifice sitting on stilts and the boat docks of the marina surrounding it.

  “Surely, that can’t be the restaurant,” Eddie said.

  “Sure it is,” Bertram said. “I seen picture postcards of it before in gift shops.”

  “It’s huge. It’ll cost a fortune just to air condition it.”

  “That ain’t half your problem,” Bertram said. “Like I said back in New Orleans, there are no paying customers within an hour of here.”

  Eddie drew a deep breath before replying. “That is a concern. What’ll I do?”

  “We’re here, now. Might as well take a look around.”

  Frankie’s engineering assessment of the island appeared correct. Atop the rise, above the bay, sat a lighthouse painted with a fresh coat of yellow and white. A picket fence circled the lighthouse, and the rear of an old Ford Bronco protruded from a covered shelter. Because of the Bronco and the well-manicured shrubbery around the fence, it seemed likely someone lived in the lighthouse. They turned their attention to the restaurant.

  The large building, a partially covered veranda surrounding it, was circular and several stories tall. The wind had damaged the cupola topping the building, and the entire structure was in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Outside stairways led to the deck on the top floor.

  “Good God Almighty!” Bertram said. “That thing is every bit of fifty thousand square feet. It’ll cost a fortune to renovate. Even if you got customers waiting in line, I can tell you right now you’re never gonna make that dog hunt.”

  “I have eyes,” Eddie said.

  Seeing Bertr
am and Eddie standing beside the walkway leading to the restaurant, the lightkeeper came through the white gate, down the broken shell pathway, to the bay. A large pit bull followed behind him. Eddie was the first to notice.

  “Must be the caretaker. He’s expecting us. Frankie said he’d give us a tour of the facilities.”

  “Uh oh!” Bertram said. “That looks like one mean dog he got with him.”

  “Let’s hope not,” Eddie said.

  Though the brindle beast looked dangerous, it sprawled on the pathway as the man bent down and gave Lady’s head a pat. With her tail wagging, Lady approached the big pit bull, rubbing noses with him. Seeing the concern on Bertram and Eddie’s faces, the man smiled and waved his hand.

  “Brutus wouldn’t hurt a soul,” he said.

  “Sure about that?” Bertram asked.

  “You got my Louisiana guaranty on it. I’m Jack Wiesinski,” he said, shaking Eddie’s hand.

  “I’m Eddie, and this is Bertram. The gorgeous collie is Lady. Looks as if she likes your big pit.”

  “And he likes her too, though he’s too lazy to get his big butt up off the ground and greet her like a proper gentleman.”

  Jack Wiesinski was short, probably no taller than five-six or seven. He was wiry, closely shaven, with brown hair buzzed almost to his scalp. From the odd shape of his mouth, it was hard to tell if he was smiling or frowning.

  “Sure glad Brutus is friendly,” Bertram said. “That big dog could do some major damage if he wanted to. I don’t recognize your accent, Jack. You from around here?”

  “Massachusetts. Grew up on Cape Ann. I like gumbo, but I’m still partial to Cape Ann chowder.”

  “Got no problem with that,” Bertram said. “I’m partial to gumbo, but I’ve never turned down a good bowl of chowder.”

  “Mr. Castellano told me you’d be coming to take a look at the restaurant.”

  Jack scratched Lady behind the ears. She must have liked him because she couldn’t stop wagging her tail.

  “Frankie said you live on the premises,” Eddie said. “Up on the hill?”

  “That’s my other baby,” Jack said. “Mr. Castellano pays me to watch his property, the state pays me to operate the lighthouse. After putting in thirty years with the Navy, I’m on government pension from them. I’m one lucky S.O.B.”