Midnight on the Mississippi

by Mary Ellis

  A small brass sign on the windowless facade revealed nothing about what waited inside. The Blue Lotus looked like the kind of place she imagined a date would take her if the man truly cared. That is, if she had time to date. Then again, nothing like this elegant restaurant would have stayed in business long back home. Cool, tropical-style ceiling fans circulated the air-conditioning above eight or nine bistro tables. Fortunately, her quarry wasn’t seated at any of these or her clandestine surveillance would have been finished before she’d even had a chance to start. A horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room with tall rattan stools. Beneath her feet were highly glazed ceramic tiles, while the lighting was muted and the patrons’ voices subdued. No jukebox blasted zydeco, no rail above the bar showcased fifty varieties of beer, and no waitresses wore cropped T-shirts and shorts. No waitresses at all. She saw only one waiter—and he was wearing a tuxedo, no less.

  Probably no prices on the menu. Maybe no menu. Maybe you just tell the Creole chef what you want and…and voilà!

  She walked through the bar toward the French doors and peeked around a large plant. The outdoor patio was a lovely surprise—five times the size of the interior portion with stone walkways connecting intimate terraces for ambiance and seclusion. Artfully placed potted palms and hibiscus provided additional privacy between tables. Strings of tiny white lights woven through the Spanish moss would transform the restaurant into an enchanted fairyland come nightfall.

  In the courtyard her cousin sat under a live oak talking with another man. Although his back was to her, his shoulders were broad, his hair thick and tousled, and his sport coat loose and casual. Galen—trying hard not to look rich and infamous. Nate must have said something amusing because the accused threw his head back with laughter.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” A voice over Nicki’s right shoulder nearly startled her out of her toe-pinching shoes.

  “One for lunch,” she squeaked. She felt her cheeks redden under the maître-d’s perusal. “May I have that table, please?”

  His gaze followed to where Nicki’s finger pointed—a table hidden by a huge blooming bush, one terrace higher than Nate’s. “Ah, a good table for people-watching, yes?” Grinning, he held open the door for her.

  “True, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to seat myself.” Before the man could argue, she pulled a menu from his fingers and scurried across the flagstones. Behind her he clucked his tongue but didn’t follow.

  Nicki slipped into a seat, propped her menu in front of her face, and moved the vase of flowers to a better position. From her vantage point, she could watch her cousin and Hunter Galen. Investigator and client were huddled deep in conversation, their menus ignored on the edge of the table. If only she could get a clear view of their faces, she might be able to tell what was being discussed. But neither one of them would sit still long enough.

  Nicki only knew what she’d read about him, which wasn’t much. Newspapers in Natchez said little about rich powerbrokers in New Orleans. However, news concerning the suicide or potential murder of his friend and partner had reached even the front pages in the Delta. He was better looking than the photo run in the Times, yet the thing Galen really had going for him was his hair—thick, wavy, dark blond, short on the sides, longish in the back. The kind of cut worn by arrogant men who thought they ruled the world.

  Finally, Nate stopped bobbing and weaving and sat still long enough for Nicki to read his lips. We’ll see that no charges will be brought against you. I promise you’ll never spend another night in jail. The hair on Nicki’s neck stood on end. If this pretty boy was guilty, if he had blasted his business partner into kingdom come, she wasn’t going to enjoy getting him off. But if she could prove herself to Nate—and that led to his hiring her on a permanent basis—she would be happy to hand Jack the Ripper a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  FIVE

  The piranhas are getting more creative these days,” Hunter said, stretching out his long legs under the table. “She must be from a tabloid. My sister-in-law told me the Times reporters never hang out here. Not enough red meat on the menu to satisfy their appetite for blood.” He shook his head with disgust.

  “What are you talking about?” Nate asked, taking a sip of his iced tea.

  “A woman is taking pictures of me with her cell phone while trying to hide behind her menu. Not very subtle but don’t turn around. I’m curious what other tricks she has up her sleeve.”

  Nate frowned and scratched his chin. “What exactly does she look like? So skinny that if she stood sideways she would appear to be a boy? Is her hair the color of sawdust?”

  Laughing, Hunter stole another glance at the woman peeking around the side of her tall menu. “She’s fairly thin, but I wouldn’t mistake her for anything but female. And I would describe her hair color as sand on the beach.”

  Nate snorted. “Mirror sunglasses, like from an old rerun of Miami Vice?”

  “Do you know this reporter? Is she a friend of yours? I hope you haven’t gone over to the enemy’s camp.” Hunter refilled his glass of ice water from the pitcher.

  Another snort—this one loaded with contempt. “Pretend you’re talking on your cell phone. Act like something exciting is about to happen. Keep Miss Busybody’s attention on you.”

  “What’s going on, Price? You said you had important evidence to discuss in James’s murder—if that’s what they’re calling it now. I don’t have time for games.”

  “Humor me just for a minute, Hunter. I think I hear your phone ringing.”

  Before Hunter could argue, the investigator caught the arm of a roving waiter and whispered something into his ear. Then he stood and took off in the direction of the men’s room.

  Nate Price was Ethan Galen’s best friend—Ethan’s only close friend as far as Hunter could tell. He’d had little choice but to hire him when the police suspected him in James’s death. But the guy always seemed like a banana peel left on the back stairs. Exhaling a sigh, Hunter pulled out his cell and pretended to be having a fascinating conversation. After a short interval of talking to nobody, he felt silly and pocketed his phone.

  Suddenly, a burley waiter picked up the potted shrub in front of the woman’s table. With her cell phone in her left hand, while her right scribbled in a small, green, spiral notebook, the reporter’s mouth dropped open. A doe caught in the crosshairs on the first day of hunting season wouldn’t look more surprised.

  With few other choices, Hunter offered her his most ingratiating smile.

  In an instant, Nate materialized behind the woman’s table, grabbed her by the jacket, and yanked her to her feet. Like a lioness disciplining her young, the cub was dragged down the terrace steps, hissing and sputtering.

  “Hunter, I’d like you to meet my cousin Nicolette Price. Nicki, this is my client and old friend Hunter Galen, although you may find the concept of friend alien, considering the way you’re creeping around and spying on us.”

  The conspiratorial waiter appeared with a third chair. “Sit,” Nate ordered. “Tell Mr. Galen you’re sorry and that you’ll never pester him again. Then I want you to go home. And I mean to Natchez, not Chalmette.” Nate slouched into his chair and finished his tea in two long swallows.

  Hunter looked from one angry red face to the other. They eyeballed each other like dogs fighting over a bone.

  “I’m not going to apologize for doing my job, and I’m not going back to Mississippi. You can disabuse yourself of that notion right now.” She hissed the words from the side of her mouth while her lips barely moved as she sat down.

  “What exactly is your job, Miss Price? Are you a reporter?” Hunter felt like a reluctant witness to a family squabble. “I have already issued a statement to the press. I’ve nothing more to say until all the evidence has been processed.” He studied the young woman’s flushed face. She wore a prim but wrinkled suit with a white blouse buttoned up to her throat, a thin string of pearls, and high-heeled pumps. Her matching skirt and jacket made her look like an escape
e from a convent school in the Swiss Alps, but her skin was the color of heavy cream and her lips were full and lush.

  “No, Mr. Galen, I’m a private investigator just like Nate. How do you do, sir?” She stretched out her hand.

  Hunter ignored Nate’s exasperated sigh. “I’m very well, thank you.” He caught the sweet scent of peaches from her skin.

  “You see? He’s just fine, Nicki. But with that long drive ahead of you, you’d better be on your way.” Nate took hold of her sleeve and tried to hoist her to her feet. “Thanks for dropping by.”

  Cousin or not, Hunter didn’t like Nate manhandling a woman. “Lay off her, Price. Show your cousin a little family love. Why don’t we have lunch since Miss Price drove all the way here?” He picked up one of the menus that had been ignored thus far.

  Nicki shrugged from Nate’s grasp and picked up the other menu. “Thank you, Mr. Galen. That boy has the manners of a muskrat. Wait until I tell Aunt Charlotte how he’s been treatin’ me since I arrived.” This time she used an exaggerated Mississippi delta drawl. “I would love some lunch. I already decided what I wanted before I saw y’all sittin’ here.” Then with a shake of her head, the drawl vanished. “I mean, when I noticed you dining with my cousin and decided to make your acquaintance. I forget myself sometimes. I’m living in the Big Easy now, not out in the sticks. I should talk accordingly because I’m a long way from Jefferson County.”

  “Not quite far enough,” Nate murmured.

  “Nicolette is right. You do have the manners of a muskrat, Price.” Hunter waved over the waiter. To Nicki he said, “I’m pleased you decided to join us.”

  “For crying out loud, Nicki, I’m not hiring you. You can bat your pretty, long lashes all day long, but it won’t change a thing.”

  The waiter stood by Hunter’s chair, glancing with amusement from one to the other.

  “Do I have pretty, long lashes, Mr. Galen?” Nicki asked innocently. “No one’s ever told me that before.” Her smile stretched from ear to ear.

  “You do, indeed.”

  “That’s very interesting, but I didn’t come to town to bat my eyelashes, or flirt, or even sample the cuisine of this restaurant.” She pivoted toward the waiter. “But since I am here, I will have a bowl of turtle soup, the shrimp jambalaya, and Niçoise salad.”

  Despite the fact her pronunciation of the French dish of cold tuna rhymed with “my cozy,” the waiter didn’t blink. “Very good, madam. And you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the same.” Hunter suppressed a laugh. He’d never heard a woman order so much food. Ashley usually ordered a house salad without dressing and then picked things off of his plate when no one was watching.

  Nate looked from one to the other. “Are we never planning to eat again? Just bring me a burger,” he said to the waiter. “And I would like a beer. In fact let’s all have a beer, unless my cousin prefers a bottle of Dom Pérignon or perhaps a 1959 vintage Rothschild?”

  Nicki’s cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “If you recall, I don’t imbibe. Never have and never will, but don’t let me stop you. I’ll have raspberry tea.” She turned in her chair to face Hunter. “To finish what I was saying, I’m here to try to keep you out of the slammer. I have completed training in criminal investigation and have offered my services to Nathan in return for a modest starting salary. Plus any expenses incurred on the job, of course.”

  “Of course.” Hunter noticed a single dimple in her right cheek. The left contained no matching indentation, creating an appealing lopsidedness.

  “Of course, nothing,” Nate said irritably. “Nicki will only muddy the water. She’ll make a big fuss and turn everything into a sideshow. I’ve never needed help before and I don’t now.”

  He then launched into a pointless summary of Nicki’s unsuccessful attempts to mediate family squabbles.

  Price was really getting on Hunter’s nerves. Even if he hated this out-of-state cousin who dressed like Miss Marple, he shouldn’t treat her so rudely. “Stop!” Hunter held up a hand. “I’m paying the bills, so I would love to hear why Nicolette believes I’m heading to jail.”

  A blush rose up her neck, connecting her freckles into rosy splotches. “You may call me Nicki. It’s the evidence, of course. Your fingerprints were all over the gun. There was gunshot residue on your hand—not a lot, but hey, what possessed you to pick up the gun if you didn’t shoot the guy? Don’t you ever watch CSI?”

  Leaning back in his chair, Hunter paused to reflect. “Yes, I watch CSI. But when I found my best friend with the bottom half of his face gone and a quart of blood down his shirt after just talking to him on the phone less than an hour earlier, my thinking went a little off track.” He gritted out the words, trying to control his temper. After all, this was Nate’s cousin from upstate Mississippi. “And I didn’t shoot the guy. I hope you never find one of your friends in a similar situation.”

  The waiter discreetly set their luncheon plates on the table and disappeared.

  “No problem there, boss. She doesn’t have any.” Nate took a huge bite of his burger. “And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Hunter and Nicki ignored him, preferring instead to stare each other down.

  Nicki was the first to speak. “All right. That was a bit tactless. My apologies, Mr. Galen. But there are witnesses who heard you arguing with the deceased while out on your yacht. In addition, coworkers have made statements to the police that you two often fought about money.” She picked up her spoon and began her meal with her soup.

  “Please call me Hunter if you’re going to work for Nate and therefore me. And it’s not my yacht. It’s my mother’s.”

  “Ohhh, noooo.” Nate dragged out both words. “Hunter, tell me you’re not serious.” And to Nicki he said, “I don’t know when you had access, but you had no business snooping in my files.”

  His client turned on Nate. “When did you plan on telling me about these witness statements? And who on earth went on record at my mother’s birthday party that James and I argued?” His second question was more musing aloud than for anyone in particular.

  “I was about to discuss the police report today at lunch before we were so rudely interrupted.” Nate leveled a glare at Nicki.

  Smiling sweetly, she finished her soup and then attacked her cold salad with fork and knife.

  Hunter slicked a hand through his hair. “Great. I stumble blindly onto a crime scene, and because somebody heard us arguing, the cops don’t plan to look any further? They’re going to present this case to the grand jury, aren’t they?”

  “That would be my guess.” Nicki popped a grape into her mouth and chewed.

  “No, and even if they do, the DA doesn’t have enough evidence to formally charge you.” Nate insisted. “The GSR wasn’t consistent with your firing the gun. A thirty-eight throws a lot of powder. It was rub-off, and the lab report will confirm it. Besides, arguing with a business partner is business as usual, I would say.”

  Hunter tried some of the soup, but he had lost his appetite. His mother and grandmother should have been able to live out their days without one of their offspring being suspected of murder. If he was arrested, the ladies would never show their faces in public again. He pushed away his bowl of soup.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Galen? Can I bring you something different?” The waiter stopped next to his chair while en route to another table.

  “No, everything is fine. Perhaps I’ll take this with me for later.” He smiled at Nicki, not wishing to hurt her feelings about the menu selections. Then turning back to Nate, he said, “I can’t be arrested for this. Do you understand me, Price? I can’t go to jail.”

  “No problem. That’s why you pay me the big bucks. There is no way the DA will trump up charges based on the weak evidence they have. You had no motive to kill Nowak.”

  Nicki set down her fork, her jambalaya only partially consumed. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. A forensic accountant will comb through your books looking for anything shaky
. You’re a stockbroker, aren’t you? If they find even one dubious entry, you’ll be suspect numero uno. Comprendes español, señor?”

  “No, a little French, but I take your meaning nevertheless.” Hunter didn’t like her low opinion of his chosen profession, but at this point she seemed to understand the situation better than the seasoned veteran who sat glaring at her. He tossed his napkin on the table. “I want you to hire Miss Price to work with you, Nate. Not because I doubt your competence or your dedication, but because this case could get complicated. You can utilize her recent training or expertise and bill me for her salary and expenses. You’re right, Miss Price. The police need to be pointed in the right direction or all they’re going to see is me.”

  Nate lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. I concede defeat, but how is your mom, Nicki? Doesn’t Aunt Rose need your help up in Natchez? It can’t be easy for her to work and take care of herself too with her rheumatoid arthritis. If you’re on the case, you can’t be running back and forth.”

  Nicki squirmed in the chair. “Yeah, that’s what she has, and it’s gotten worse actually. She had to quit her job because she can barely bend her fingers. It’s started to affect her kidneys and lungs too. She has applied for Social Security disability, but until she’s approved there’s no money coming in.” Nicki glared defiantly at Nate as though daring him to say the wrong thing. “That’s why I need to work a real job in my profession instead of toting out the early bird specials to senior citizens.”

  Nate whistled through his teeth. “Man, I am sorry to hear about your mom.”

  Hunter’s gaze rotated between the two Prices. “So is it settled? You two will work together on my case?” He picked up his lunch, efficiently boxed by the waiter, and signed the check that materialized before him.