You see, “blending in” when you’re a six-and-a-half-foot-tall drag queen isn’t possible. But it was a safe bet that, next to Belinda, nobody would notice me.
We parked our bikes across the street from the grand old hotel, securing them via a massive chain to one of the horse-headed hitching posts outside of Mr. B’s restaurant.
Hustling across Royal Street, we blended in—again, I use that term loosely—with a bevy of tourists headed into the hotel. Once inside, Belinda guided me up a few steps and to a seat at the famous Carousel Bar.
At first, I was surprised to find the bar doing such a brisk business that early in the day, then remembered it was past noon.
“This place is popular,” I said, looking around.
“The bartenders know what they’re doing here, don’t you, sugar?” She’d turned her attention to the older black man who’d stepped up to take our order.
“We do our best.”
“In that case, give me your best milk punch. Actually, make it two.”
I’ll admit, I don’t know much about cocktails, but putting milk and punch together sounded pretty gross to me. Before I could say anything, the bartender had turned away and started making the drinks.
“Milk punch?” I asked, almost afraid to know what was in it.
“Don’t worry, we’re not talking Kool-Aid. It’s made with bourbon.”
Not much better.
“Isn’t it a little early to be drinking bourbon?” I asked.
“Never too early to drink bourbon in New Orleans. Besides, we got to blend in.”
Blending in took one rotation of the carousel and a second milk punch, which turned out to taste dangerously like a vanilla milkshake.
By the time we determined the coast was clear, I wasn’t worried about being spotted by anyone. Heck, I was a little fuzzy on why I’d been worried to start with.
“Okay,” Belinda said. “You head to the front desk and get the package. I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes.”
“Got it.” I slipped off the barstool and strolled, only a little more loosely than usual, to the reception desk.
“Hi, I’m Grace Wide—ah . . . Wilde.” I blinked at the man behind the marble-topped counter and tried to act sober. “You have a package for me.”
“You’re a guest?”
“Yepper.”
“Do you have your room key or ID?” I handed him my driver’s license. He studied the photo, then my face.
“I’m an angel today.” I pointed to the halo in case he needed clarification.
“Very nice.” His smile seemed genuine, so maybe he meant it. “You’re going to the parade?”
There was a parade?
Here’s the thing—I don’t like crowds or most people, but I love a good parade. Paradox.
“Hope so,” I told the desk clerk.
“Here’s your package, Miss Wilde.” He handed me a padded envelope half the size of a magazine. I tucked it into my jacket and was turning to go when he asked, “Would you like your messages, too?”
“Messages? Um . . . sure.”
“It’s a voice mail. You can listen in your room or use the courtesy phone.” He pointed to a phone at a cute little writing desk on the other side of the reception area.
Did I want to risk going to the room or try to hear over the echoing lobby?
“Can I listen to the message here?”
“Sure.”
He handed me the receiver, pushed a couple of buttons, and after a few seconds, my sister’s voice came over the line.
“I didn’t hear from you last night so I’m assuming your phone either died or you lost it. In case it’s the latter and you don’t have access to your contacts, I’m going to give you my number and Kai’s. Give one of us a call when you get this so we know you’re alive.”
There was an odd noise in the background and a muffled sound as she covered the receiver to speak to whomever she was with. The bourbon in my brain was not helping me think and she was already reciting her number when I realized I didn’t have anything to write on or with. By the time I borrowed a pen and notepad from the concierge she was halfway through her number. Thankfully, I knew the area code and prefix so I was able to scribble the number down, along with Kai’s.
I heard another shuffling noise over the message and my sister said, “There isn’t room for you up here. Go on. Hugh, can you help me out here?” I couldn’t make out Hugh’s response but I heard the words crazy and dog.
Dr. Hugh Murray, exotic animal veterinarian, überflirt, and my sister’s new honey, must have been helping Emma deal with Moss and his stubborn streak.
It didn’t worry me—Hugh had plenty of experience with animals—until I heard a third person speak. The voice was too faint to tell who it was but my dog’s reaction was loud and clear.
He growled deep and low.
A warning. What the heck was going on?
“Um . . .” my sister said into the receiver. “I’ve got to run. Call me later, okay? Love you.”
Before she hung up I heard her say, “Moss, cut it out.”
Okay, now I was a little worried, but I couldn’t stand there at the front desk and call her back. It was too much of a risk. I would have to hope she’d handled whatever situation had come up.
I thanked the desk clerk and handed him the phone. Even though I was itching to see what was in the package, I didn’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.
I turned to look for Belinda. I spotted her posing with a couple of tourists next to the gigantic grandfather clock in the hotel’s foyer.
I caught her eye and gave her a nod to say I’d gotten what we came for, then hooked my thumb toward the entrance.
After extracting herself from her admirers, Belinda sashayed to where I was waiting and we hightailed it out of there.
We bustled out of the gleaming glass and brass doors of the hotel and took a right—which was the opposite direction from where our bikes were parked.
“Where are we going?” I asked Belinda. “The bikes are that way.”
“Leave the bikes. We’re not going far.”
Figuring she had a plan, I followed. The day remained chilly—which was a good thing. I needed the cool wind to blow the clouds out of my bourbon-fogged brain. Our hurried pace also helped.
Even in platform heels, Belinda was fast, and I struggled to keep up with her long stride. We walked past antiques shops boasting gilded furniture and glittering chandeliers and art galleries displaying bold modern paintings. At one shop, I spotted a large calico cat lounging in the front window next to one of those famous Blue Dog paintings.
Just past the marble steps of a beautiful judicial building we stepped into the welcome warmth of Café Beignet.
The place was hopping. Its tiny round tables were packed with customers waiting for the café’s namesake treat. A waiter zigzagged through the crowd carrying a tray of the powdered sugar–covered fried dough, and suddenly I was hungry again.
“We’ll never find an open table,” I said to Belinda, realizing she hadn’t attracted as many looks as I’d expected. Maybe this crowd was more local and used to seeing Amazonian-sized drag queens sporting angel wings and halos.
“Sure we will. Come on.” Belinda led me out a side door into a courtyard and over to a small metal table.
“We should be okay here,” she said as we sat. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I pulled the package out of my jacket and hesitated, glancing around. “You sure? We’re only a couple blocks from the hotel.”
“Whoever these people following you are, they ain’t going to come here.”
I followed the wave of her manicured hand to the building next door and saw what she meant.
Two police officers walked up the steps and crossed the portico. As they reached the
door, it opened and a third cop exited the building.
“A police station?”
“Right next to a place that sells fried dough. Ain’t that something? Now, the suspense has been killing me. What’s in the bag?”
Before tearing the package open, I took time to inspect the envelope, but found only my name, handwritten in thick black ink.
The package contained two things: my phone and a card.
“Is that your phone?”
“Yes.”
“So your friend gave it back?”
“Looks like it.”
“Is there a note or anything?”
I shook my head. “Just this.” I held up the card.
“Whose phone number is it?”
“Logan’s, probably.”
“Does that mean he wants you to call him?”
“I don’t really care what he wants. I need to get in touch with my sister.”
I opened my contacts and hit her number. It went to voice mail without ringing. I left her a message to call me back and hung up, frowning.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Belinda said, reading my expression easily.
“It’s not her I’m worried about.” I explained what I’d overheard on Emma’s message and my concern for whomever Moss had been growling at.
“Well,” Belinda said. “You didn’t have a second message at the hotel saying he’d mauled anyone, right?”
“Right.” I relaxed a little at the logic.
“Check your phone.”
I did. There were two missed texts from Kai. One wishing me luck on my “case” and a second from that morning, saying he was working a case and would be out of touch until that afternoon.
“Nothing about Moss,” I said to Belinda.
“Then don’t sweat it. You got bigger fish to fry.”
I picked up Logan’s card and dialed the number. After a couple of rings, a recorded voice told me the person I was trying to reach was unavailable and suggested I try my call again later. I shrugged and hung up.
“No answer,” I said to Belinda. She huffed out a dissatisfied breath and leaned back in her chair.
“Well, damn.”
My thoughts exactly. “Sorry. It looks like we went to a lot of trouble for nothing.”
“Not nothing. You got your phone back.”
She glanced at the screen and her eyes widened. “Is that the time? I’ve got to run. I’ve got a client coming in for a reading.”
Out of her enormous bag Belinda produced a dark blue jacket, a colorful ski hat, and an extra-large Ziploc bag. She opened the bag and motioned for me to lean closer. With a few nimble plucks she removed the bobby pins holding my wig in place and moments later I was a brunette again. Belinda slid the wig, halo and all, into the bag and zipped it closed.
“Anyone who saw you going into the hotel as a blond angel won’t be looking for a subdued local. Trade.” She held out the jacket. I shrugged out of the one I was wearing and handed it to her.
“I have appointments the rest of this afternoon but if you need me you call me.” She handed me a business card and placed a set of keys on the table in front of me. She pointed one glitzy nail, first at one key, then the other. “Courtyard gate. Bike lock. The gate key also opens the side door into the kitchen.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile and a small headshake.
“What?”
“I was just thinking you deserve that halo.”
She waved the comment off. “Please. I’m only seventy-five percent angel sixty percent of the time. Oh, and take this.” She fished a card out of her purse and handed it to me.
“A parking pass?”
“The lot is two blocks away from my place, on Dauphine.”
“Why would I need a parking pass?”
“No idea. But you will.”
“The Tingle?”
She winked and her glitter-coated lashes flashed like diamonds.
“Always listen to the Tingle.”
She turned to glide away through the crowd, graceful as any ballroom dancer. It made me wonder if people would ever stop surprising me.
The thought reminded me of Logan. I picked up the card he’d left in the package and studied it.
What was going on with him? What was his connection to Veronica? Had he done something to her? They were the same questions I’d been asking myself since the day before. Not having any answers was becoming more frustrating by the minute.
Slipping the card back into the envelope, I tucked the package into the messenger bag Belinda had loaned me.
My phone began singing, Oh, girls just wanna have fun! And I snatched it off the table. “Emma?”
“Hey! You didn’t lose your phone after all. Did you forget to charge it?”
“It’s a long story. Is everything okay with you?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
I picked up the slightest strain in her voice. “Emma, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Em—”
“Damn it. I was trying to surprise you.”
“With?”
“Well, because you couldn’t come to my birthday celebration, I thought I’d come to you.”
“What?”
“Yep! We’re on the way.”
“We? You have Moss with you?”
“And Hugh and Kai.”
“What?” I sputtered.
“Surprise! Don’t worry—I’ve already contacted the hotel. They can accommodate us and extend your stay.”
I was too shocked to speak for several seconds. Finally I managed to say, “Em, you can’t go to the hotel.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not safe.”
“Oookay.” She drew out the word, then asked, “What am I missing here?”
“A lot. Listen, it’s too much to try to explain on the phone. But there’s something fishy going on. I was being followed last night so I couldn’t go back to the hotel, and I’m pretty sure Anya is involved.”
Kai’s voice came over the line. “Where are you?” he asked.
“Safe. I’m sitting in a café next to a police station in the French Quarter.”
“Stay there. We’ll call you when we’re ten minutes away.” His voice was steady, but I thought I heard a trace of irritation in his words. Maybe it was worry. I wasn’t very good at interpreting human emotions, which was why I didn’t know what to say to people half the time.
“Okay.”
“Be careful. We’ll be there in a couple of hours.”
If I had any hope of waiting that long, I was going to need a coffee and an order of beignets. I squeezed into the café and waited in the very long line.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting back in the courtyard and washing down the sweet, fried confection with a hot café au lait.
A street performer who had set up next to the café to sing for tips kept me entertained. He had a great voice and inspired applause after every song. After a truly impressive version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” I got up and walked around the ornate iron fence to toss a dollar into his tip jar.
My reward for this moment of generosity was to return to find I’d lost my table. I didn’t really mind though—the couple who’d claimed it had two little kids who would probably be hopped up on sugar in no time. But it left me with limited seating options.
The hum of a feline mind caught my attention and I glanced around to see if I could pinpoint the source. A moment later I caught sight of a large brown tabby cat as he emerged from the landscaping to slink over to a sizable bowl of food someone had placed under one of the concrete benches. I abandoned my search for a table and went over to have a chat with the cat. Might as well talk to someone while I waited for the cavalry.
After a few minu
tes of mostly one-sided conversation, the cat moseyed off to curl up for a nap in its warm kitty spot. The thought brought on a sudden acute awareness. I realized my butt was becoming colder than a well digger’s toes where it made contact with the concrete bench. I considered trying to wedge myself into the café again, but after a glance through the crowded doorway, nixed the idea.
Abandoning the cold concrete bench, I stood and glanced at the portico to my right. Maybe I could warm up inside the police station?
I walked toward the station. As I climbed the white marble steps I noticed a sign advertising the sale of merchandise inside.
A perfect excuse to loiter. Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d have a scarf for sale. Making my way inside through the tall glass-and-wood doors I discovered the NOPD offered its wares in a unique way—with vending machines.
There were a number of items sporting the crescent moon and star logo of the department. T-shirts, ponchos, even drink koozies, but no scarves. I took my time deciding and had settled on a long-sleeve T-shirt when my attention was snagged by two words: “Mystery Monkey.”
I turned to see Marisa, the zookeeper I’d met the day before, speaking to a tall, uniformed police officer.
“We’ve had a number of sightings reported to the hotline in the area,” she said.
“Last time, it was a raccoon in a shed,” grumbled the cop. “But we’ll check it out. You want to meet us there in case this is legit?”
I tiptoed closer. Had someone caught the Mystery Monkey? Good news if they had. Not only was it too cold for a capuchin monkey to survive for long without shelter, but, if I could tag along, I might have a chance to talk to the little bugger about Veronica and Logan.
“Hi.” I stepped up to the pair and offered my hand to the policeman. “I’m Grace Wilde.”
A little bewildered, he took my hand and shook it. Before he could give me more than his name, I turned my attention to Marisa.
“I was just looking at a couple of gifts and couldn’t help but overhear. Need another set of hands?”
“Actually, we might. Officer Green, would you mind bringing Miss Wilde with you?”
“You’re with the zoo?” he asked, looking back and forth between us.
Take the Monkey and Run Page 6
