“Ah, no. What did he want?”
“That other man, the one who bought Colbert’s Place, stopped Reed one day on his way home from school. That man stepped right in front of that boy riding his bike. He put his hands on the child’s handlebars to keep him from riding away. Then he asked Reed if he wanted to make some easy money for a new bike, a better bike, if he wanted to make some new friends.” She looked at me. “You see, Reed, he looks younger than he is, more innocent, but he understands the twisted ways of some people.”
“Let me get this straight. He was propositioning Reed for sex?” My voice carried the disgust I felt.
She nodded, anger bubbling up to the surface. “He shows my Reed a picture of a naked little girl and asks him if he wants to meet and play with her. Well, Reed just yanks his handlebars out of that man’s grasp and rides himself home to me as quick as he can. I call the police and they go over there. Of course, he denies it, said it was a big misunderstanding, but what it did was show that man he can’t fool around with me. And if he does anything like that again, I’ll take my daddy’s old shotgun and shoot him dead.”
“I’ll bet you will.”
“Bernie Gold was his partner and wanted this house to do their sickness in. Set up their evil business, close enough to the City for perverts to come to. You know, this is a big enough house. I got five bedrooms, seven if you convert the two rooms I use downstairs for my business. He isn’t the first one to try to buy this house from under me, but nobody ever had such evil ideas for it before.”
I sat stupefied for a moment then swiped through the rest of the images Richard sent to my phone. I stopped at Dennis Manning’s updated photo.
“Is he the owner of Old Colbert’s Place?”
“Yes.”
I was getting hits all over the place. Something in my face must have betrayed me, because Mama Biggs stared at the image for a moment, all the color draining from her face.
“Is that the man who raped and nearly killed your Vicki’s sister?”
I nodded. “Do you know what his name is now?”
Mama Biggs crossed herself and sat back in her chair, as if to get as far away from his image as possible. “Samuel Randolph. Sometimes I get his mail. He’s down the street and our addresses are reversed. Sometimes the postman switches them. Look here.” She rose, went over to the counter, and picked up a stack of mail.
“Here’s one today from a pizza parlor. I don’t know how they get all our names and addresses, but they do. If it’s something like this, I just throw it out. If it looks legal, I turn it over to the postman.”
“May I have that?” I reached out a hand. She shrugged and gave it to me. I finished off my tea and stood, facing the petite woman.
“I’ve taken up enough of your time, Mama Biggs. I should go. But before I do that, maybe you could give me a quick tour of your Voodoo shop? I’ve never seen one before.”
She shrugged again, turned, and crossed through the doorway leading to a dark wood spiral staircase in the middle of a hall. I followed her into the hall and to the staircase that separated the kitchen from a front room that looked like a large, turn-of-the-century dining room. We went down the creaky but solid stairs for three flights, me giving each floor as much of a once-over as possible.
We arrived at the bottom into a room used mainly for storage. Behind me, a back door led out to the garden and Reed’s muted riffing on the other side of the palm trees. Inside, shelving lined one wall floor to ceiling, filled with glass jars containing what looked like roots, bark, and a few things I didn’t like to think about. On the opposite wall, a closed narrow door led to another room, possibly one of the bedrooms Mama Biggs had mentioned. A small sink filled with terracotta flower pots sat next to an apartment size refrigerator and stove combo. Something was brewing on a low fire on one of the burners. It had an odd smell, like sage, rubber, and walnuts.
“Sometimes these herbs smell bad, so I do my orders down here on the little stove.” She threw the comment over her shoulder, as if reading my mind. “I don’t like to mix my work with my home-cooking upstairs.”
Mama Biggs pushed aside a curtain of multi-colored beads and gestured for me to follow her into the larger, front room serving as her shop. As I stepped through the beads, she began to give me a running lecture.
“My clientele come by appointment only. They call me, tell me what they need. I either got it or send away for it. If it’s something I have to make up, like a potion or tea, I tell them when to come for it.”
This room was less bright than the kitchen and had a serious air about it despite its colorful contents. I looked around at bright painted and feathered masks hanging on the walls, some beautiful, some grotesque. They were all dazzling, taking your breath away. Jewelry, statues, fabrics, books, well-filled glass jars, and more were artfully displayed on counters and tables. Dolls looking less Voodoo than folk art stood around in small clusters, as if taking a meeting.
“Wow,” was all I could say. I walked over to the assortment of Voodoo dolls. None of them were as crudely made as the one I found in Richard’s car. These were beautifully crafted, most dressed in gorgeous clothes similar to what Mama Biggs was wearing.
I picked one up from inside a stand, displayed next to a sterling silver necklace with a claw-like hand holding a ball. The doll had an enameled cocoa-colored head, hands, and feet, with thin hair-line cracks running through the veneer. A regal robe covered the body, once probably a brightly colored pattern, but now washed out by time to pastels. In contrast, the gold sash, trim edging the robe, and several bangle bracelets adorning tiny wrists and ankles glittered like they had been put on only that morning.
With a little practice you get to know the quality of gold. Here was at the minimum twenty-four karat gold or I am not my mother’s daughter.
“Be careful with that, Missy.” Mama Biggs smiled a warning. “That’s nearly two-hundred years old and I’m selling it day after tomorrow for two-thousand dollars.”
“Yikes.” I set it back down with care. “I see there are serious bucks to be made in this business.”
“Not always, but I do all right. That doll originally came from Jamaica for Marie Laveau’s private collection. I have authentication. You heard of Marie Laveau?”
“She was one of the queens of Voodoo here in New Orleans.”
She raised her forefinger, as if to make a point. “The queen. Over twenty-thousand people came to see the Voodoo priestess perform her magic at the height of her powers.”
I narrowed my eyes at her. “I thought you didn’t believe in this stuff.”
“I believe in the power people have over one another, using their will and their minds. Use it for good is all I say.”
She went to the front door and opened it. An overhead bell tinkled. The interview was over. I took out one of my cards from my fanny pack.
“Thank you, Mama Biggs, for your time and the tea. Here’s my card, in case you think of something else.”
I gave her my card then extended my hand. She took it and gasped.
“What is it? An electric shock? Sorry about that.” I tried to pull my hand back but she held it firm, her eyes closed tight.
“You be careful, Missy. Watch the water. Stay off the water. No good can come from it.”
“You mean, like a pool? That’s about the only water I do.”
Her eyes flickered open. “Don’t you be sassy with me. You know what I mean. You watch out for the Bayou, brackish, and salt water. You be careful or you might meet your end there.”
I gulped, but managed a smile. “Right. Okay then. Well, thanks, Mama Biggs. I think.”
“He will kill you, if he can.” She squeezed my hand so tightly, it began to hurt.
“We’re talking Dennis Manning here, right?”
“You know who I’m talking about.”
She dropped my hand and strode away without a backward glance, cutting her way through the curtain of colorful beads.
Chapter Twel
ve
The Future Looks Bleaker Than I Thought
I moved down the five steps of the wooded porch at a fair clip without looking back. I was shaken by our last exchange of words, but tried not to show it. However, at the end of the sidewalk I turned and scrutinized the four story brick-colored wood house with white trim. Over the doorframe was a small sign that read ‘Barefoot Mama Biggs, Proprietress;’ not really noticeable unless you were looking for it, like I was.
The shimmer of a white sheer moving in one of the second floor windows caught my eye. Mama Biggs pushed the curtain aside and stood looking down at me. I waved. She didn’t wave back.
So, Mama Biggs, what was that all about? You really see something or are you just trying to scare me off? Fat chance.”
The sun was heating up nicely now and the few moments I stood baking in it caused beads of perspiration to sprout on my forehead and upper lip. So classy.
I walked with a slow gait toward the end of the block, but once out of any sightline from the house, broke into a run around to the backside of the block where I’d started. Anxious to get on with this, I crossed the street. The sounds of the clarinet were clearer from here and filled the morning’s air with a melody to rival any songbird I’ve ever heard. If I hadn’t seen the child play myself, I would have sworn it was a professional musician.
While walking, I called Lila. She answered on the first ring.
“Good morning, Lila. It’s me.”
“Liana, I was wondering when I would hear from you. Update me, please.”
I’d used her first name instead of ‘hi Mom’ indicating this was D.I. business. Otherwise, she probably would have felt the need to correct my grammar. The correct phrase is ‘It is I’. She knows it, I know it, but things just slip out sometimes.
“It’s been a productive morning. I not only found out the name of the dead man, which is Bernie Gold out of Chicago, but I’ve got a lead on Dennis Manning, who supposedly calls himself Samuel Randolph these days.”
“This is indeed progress.”
Lila sounded pleased, so pleased in fact, I felt a glow of pride. I done good.
“According to Barefoot Mama Biggs – and yes, that’s really her name – Dennis Manning, AKA Samuel Randolph, has owned an engine repair shop for the past five or six years a few blocks down from where Bernie Gold was found yesterday. After I pay a visit to a shoe repair store on the other side of the street to see if anyone there saw anything, I’ll head for it. If need be, I’ll break inside to see what’s what.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Excuse me? I’m thinking of doing a little B&E and my mother is worried about what I’m wearing?” We switched gears from CEO and boss back to mommy.
“What I meant, Liana, and there is no reason for you to be sarcastic, is that I hope you are more suitably dressed than when you came to the hospital last night. Something to blend in more with the scenery, more appropriate.”
I looked down at my polka dots and gladiator shoes. “You betcha, Mom. I’ve got it all under control.”
“Very well.” I could feel her huffy mood over the airwaves.
“Apologies for whatever, Mom. I’m...I’ve got a lot going on and it’s hotter than blazes.”
Somewhat mollified, she said, “I understand. Heat can affect one’s mood. Fortunately, Victoria’s shop is equipped with an excellent cooling system.”
“Really? I’ll be right over.”
Silence.
“It was a small joke,” I said.
“I see. Ha ha. Well, I have some news of my own. Our Victoria will be able to leave the hospital tomorrow.”
“Nothing about her being arrested for murder?” I stopped walking and parked myself under a shady tree.
“Not a word. There has also been no mention of yesterday’s incident in any of the newspapers.”
“So unless the Big Easy is slow in imparting the news, someone with a lot of moxie has strangled it.”
I felt the huff arise again, even over the phone.
“Liana, must you continue to use Hollywood gangster terms? You are no longer an impressionable child and it is so unladylike.”
My mother has been haranguing me about my affection for nineteen forties black and white crime movies since I was a kid. I saw the Maltese Falcon on TV at the tender age of nine and was set on a path for life that has caused her to repeatedly pull out her hair. When I wasn’t running around the house talking out of the side of my mouth, imitating Humphrey Bogart, I was watching any old movie with a cop car in it. Then I latched on to that fab actress, Barbara Stanwyck, whose body of work I’ve loved since I saw her as Sugarpuss O’Shea in Ball of Fire. I even watched her in her later years in reruns of the television show “The Big Valley,” undeterred by the fact her character was reminiscent of my own mother. I mean, lose the horsewhip and add a Dior gown and it was spot on.
“Liana, are you still there?”
“Sorry, Mom. Got lost in thought.” I heard a beep indicating another call coming in. “Whoops. Got to go, it’s Richard. Anything you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him to let Victoria know the workmen have completed the shelving and sixteen boxes of hats have arrived in excellent condition. Also, Mateo is on his way over to the hospital with her favorite frittata for lunch.”
My protein deprived stomach grumbled. A Beignet and two cookies just didn’t do it for me. But I soldiered on because I am a professional, of sorts.
“I’ll tell him. Signing off for now.”
“Liana.” Her voice shot out over the airwaves.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I just wanted to say, well done and be careful, my dear. Please don’t take any unnecessary risks.”
A warm rush filled me. “Will do, Mom, and thanks.”
I pressed the flash button on my phone and filled Richard in with what was going on. He was elated at what I’d found, and wanted to get off the phone to initiate a new search with the updated information. It occurred to both of us that once we discovered Manning to be alive, he wasn’t that hard to track down.
We hung up and I headed to the small shoe repair shop. Like every building on this block, it was narrow and long. Each of the three small stores contained within the building were barely eight feet wide.
Oscar’s Shoe Repair, the only remaining open store of the three, looked forlorn and out of place, even with its relatively new sign. The doors at both ends of the shop were propped open for ventilation, but the smell of shoe polish, stale cigarettes, and cement glue was overwhelming despite the large square fan sitting on the floor pushing air around. Dozens of lathes hung on walls, along with Doctor Scholl products, such as corn pads, insoles and orthotics. The glass counter was covered mostly with men’s leather wingtips and one or two sturdy-looking women’s shoes.
I heard tapping coming from behind the counter and looked over to see the same man who’d been smoking outside the door earlier. He was sitting on a bench, bent over a man’s black shoe and banging the hell out of it with the small hammer. Being a cobbler seems to release a lot of aggressions.
“Excuse me.” I pretty much had to holler over the din of the fan. He still didn’t hear me, so I called out again. “Hello, back there. Excuse me. Can I talk to you for a minute?”
He looked up and squinted from behind John Lennon-like glasses, holding his small hammer midair. “What do you want?”
“Information, if you’ve got it.”
“If you don’t have a pair of shoes that need work, go away. I’m busy.”
I reached behind me and pulled a fifty-dollar bill out of my fanny pack. I never go anywhere without the correct change. I stretched it out in both hands.
“I’ve got a Ulysses S. Grant here in need of repair.”
He wrinkled his nose and pushed the glasses closer to his eyes with his free hand. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’ll give you fifty dollars if you talk to me for five minutes.”
“Well, wh
y didn’t you say so?” He put down his hammer, swung one leg over the vise-encased shoe, and came to his side of the counter. “I don’t know who the hell is on a fifty-dollar bill. Who the hell does?”
Well, I the hell do, I wanted to say, but let it pass.
“Mind if I turn off the fan for a minute? It’s a little noisy.” I reached over for the switch.
“Yeah, I do. Leave it on. What do you want to know?”
Even over the buzz saw noise of the fan, his accent was about as far from the south as you can get. I’m guessing Brooklyn, maybe the Bronx. Black curly hair, slack jaw line, and five-o’clock stubble etched a face worn and tired.
He sounded like a lot of the cops in the nineteen-forties movies I often watch, the dumb ones, without a lot of lines to say but a lot of attitude. I suspected he didn’t care who I was or what my goals were for being there, as long as he got his dough. I launched into what I wanted without any preamble.
“You heard about the murder yesterday across the street?”
“Hell, yes. There were cop cars everywhere for hours. Sirens blaring, lights flashing. Cops running around asking a lot of questions. Even this morning a cop car showed up, but no sirens. Just the flashing lights. He stayed for about fifteen minutes.”
“This morning? Around what time?”
“Early. Maybe six-thirty, seven o’clock. My apartment’s upstairs. Otherwise, I couldn’t afford to stay in business. That and making break-away shoes for funeral parlors.”
I stared at him. “I don’t even want to think about what that is.”
“Funny, that’s what my wife says.”
“Did you recognize the policeman from yesterday?”
“Sure. A big, surly guy.”
“Running to fat? Wears a lot of brown?”
“That’s the one. Acts like he owns the world. To hell with that.”
“Amen, brother. You hear anything suspicious yesterday morning? Or see anything? Maybe when you stepped outside for a smoke?”
He looked at me and scoffed. “You’re kidding, right? Like I told the cops, honey, I seen nothing.” Then he leaned in, sincere for a moment. “And even if I did, I know enough to keep my mouth shut. Soon as I can, I’m taking me and my business out of here.” He held out his hand. “Now give.”
DEAD....If Only (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 4) Page 9
