I shivered as I ran up the three flights of the backstairs to Mama Biggs’ kitchen. She must have been on the lookout for me, because I only knocked once before she flung the door wide open. Pushed in by the wind, I smashed into her and we both struggled to close the door.
I turned to face a woman who looked smaller and older than the day before. Fear and self-recrimination has a way of doing that.
“Did you find out anything? Do you know where my boy is?” She clutched at the collar of her floral robe, fingers clenching and unclenching the flannel fabric.
“Not yet.” I decided against telling her about Manning’s wife and Mrs. Llewellyn. There was no point in upsetting her any more than she already was. I put my hand on her shoulder. “I need to ask you a few questions. Why don’t we sit down?”
Mama Biggs wasn’t listening after I’d said ‘not yet’. Or didn’t want to. She wiggled out of my hold and paced up and down the kitchen, talking the whole time, a lamenting duet with the wind outside.
“This is my fault. I struck my boy; I drove him away. Whatever possessed me to do that? It was like demons had hold of me. And my Reed, my poor sweet boy, has had enough trouble in his young life. A mama dying on him so young; a father leaving him after Hurricane Katrina did its worse. All he had was me.”
“He still has you.”
She turned back and looked at me. “I got a bad feeling, so strong, that my boy is in danger. I can see him but I can’t do anything to help him.” She burst into tears.
I would have joined her but time was running out. I crossed the room and took hold of her slim shoulders.
“Look at me. Look at me.” I shook her until she stopped crying and looked me in the eye. “You talk about seeing things and feeling things. I want to know how real they are.”
“What do you mean?”
“All this insight stuff. Is it a show you put on for your customers? Or do you have a way of seeing how things are or going to be? I was partnered with a woman in Georgia once who helped me find missing data stolen by an IT guy. She worked for the police department from time to time finding lost children, too. They said she had ‘the gift’. There wasn’t much other explanation for what she did. So I’m open to this, but don’t waste my time if it isn’t true. Reed’s life may depend on it.”
I let her go and she almost dropped to the floor. I put my arm around her and guided her to one of the chairs at the table. She sat down heavily. She spoke with her head resting on her chest, and eyes closed. Her voice was so soft I could barely hear the words.
“I got the gift. My daddy had it and his mama before him. No use talking about it. Nobody believes you.”
“Okay, let’s say I do believe you. Yesterday when you took my hands, you said for me to stay off briny or salt water. Now should I chalk that up to showmanship or did you really, truly see something?” I sat in the chair across from her and studied her hard.
Mama Biggs wiped her face with a trembling hand. She looked up and leaned into me with such intensity, I drew back. “I saw you. I saw you on a boat. Out somewhere on the water. Waves of water. Waves of trouble. Bad.” She reached out a hand and touched my face with trembling fingers. “There’s more. You was shot, Missy. I didn’t see you after, but you was shot.” She shrank back into her chair, arm falling to her side.
“Okay. Not thrilled with that, but okay.” Shaken, I took my phone out of my bag, pressed Richard’s number, and put the phone to my ear. Dead, muerto. “Do you have a landline?” She nodded and pointed to the phone at the end of the kitchen counter. “May I use it?”
She nodded and dropped her head down to her chest once more. I picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone. It takes a lot to kick out a landline. They may be stationary, but it’s one of their pluses. I dialed Richard’s number, hoping his smart phone wasn’t out like mine. It wasn’t.
“Richard Alvarez speaking.”
“Richard, it’s me.”
“Lee! Where are you? Whose phone is this?”
“I’m calling you on Mama Biggs’ landline. My phone’s out.”
“The tower must have blown down where you are. I told you to get a satellite phone like I have. And get back here. Mom is frantic with worry about you.”
“Tell her not to worry, I’m fine. I --”
“Easy for you to say,” he interrupted, with a whisper. “You’re not trapped in a room with Our Lady, who’s turning into a fire-breathing dragon. Vicki had to make her some Chamomile tea.”
“How is Vicki?”
“Like the rest of us, anxious about you.”
“Moving on, in your research on Manning, did you ever find out if he bought another boat when he got to New Orleans?”
“Another boat? Let me see. Hold on.”
I heard the phone clunk on a hard surface to be picked up a few seconds later.
“Yes, he’s moved up in the world. The Fantasy Seventy-seven. Four staterooms, marble bathrooms, a multi-million dollar boat. It made its debut back in two thousand and nine when --”
“Let’s save the ad copy for another time, shall we, Richard? Does it have a name?”
“Name, name. Wait a minute. I can enlarge a photo of it.” There was a pause and I heard the clicking of a mouse. “Yes, Laura’s Folly. I guess he named his new boat after his wife’s new name.”
“How romantic. Right before he killed her.”
“Lee! You think her overdose wasn’t an accident?”
“Leave nobody talking.”
“You know, sometimes your mind scares me.”
“Thank you. Where is the boat docked?”
“Docked, docked.” I could feel him searching through his data. “Ah! The Orleans Harbor Marina.”
“You got a slip number?”
“Yes, B248. You don’t think he’s gone to his boat in this weather? That could be suicide.”
I looked over at Mama Biggs, leaning against the edge of the table. Other than a rigid hand moving a cup of untouched tea back and forth in front of her, she sat motionless. The expression on her face showed me her thoughts weren’t anywhere in the room. I didn’t want to know what she was thinking. I didn’t even want to know what I was thinking.
“Give me the address, Richard.”
“Address, address.” As realization dawned on my brother, his words became drawn out and accusatory. “Oh no, sister mine. You’re not going there in weather like this.”
“Oh yes, brother mine, I am.” I imitated his singsong. “And if you don’t give it to me, I can look it up in the phone book.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Mom’s going to have a cow when she finds out about this.”
“From dragon to cow. Sounds like an improvement. Oh, and try to reach Gurn for me, would you? I promised I would keep him in the loop.”
“This is keeping him in the loop?”
“Address, please.”
Richard gave me the address of the marina and I hung up on a sputtering brother. I put the address in my Smartphone, which was now a glorified memo pad. How the mighty have fallen. I turned back to Mama Biggs.
“You have a car, right?”
She came back to the land of the living with one word. “Yes.”
“I’m going to need to borrow it for a time.”
She didn’t move but said, “The keys are next to the cookie jar. It’s the black SUV across the street. Do whatever you want with it, just bring back my boy to me.”
“That’s the plan.”
I reached for the keys on a large, metal keychain. The name Barefoot Mama Biggs was etched on one side; the other side was a picture of Reed set behind Lucite.
“I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.” I didn’t add a stupid phrase, such as, ‘try not to worry’. I’ve never met a person yet those words worked on.
She nodded. I didn’t have anything to say after that, so I left her to her thoughts. At least I would be busy, keeping my own thoughts at bay. She had the tougher job: just sit and wait.
C
hapter Twenty-five
When You’re In it, You’re In It
I ran down the stairs and out the front door. In the few minutes I’d spent with Mama Biggs, the temperature dropped a good ten degrees and the sky had turned pewter grey. Murky, ominous clouds raced across the sky like steel battering rams. Below, the whooshing of the wind obliterated the common, every day sounds except for the most insistent and jarring. The tinny sound of a metal trash can as it bounced across the street and crashed against the curb pierced through the steady wail. Intermittent raindrops the size of golf balls came at me sideways.
A lone man, clutching a red jacket around his frame, fought to stay upright against a wind pushing him from behind, forcing him to walk stiff legged, like he was in an old-time, silent movie. Other than him, not another living soul was on the street.
Across the street sat a huge, old and dented black SUV. It looked sturdy enough to take on any tropical storm you could throw at it. Actually, put a rudder on it and you had the Merrimack.
My own car is a turquoise ’57 Chevy convertible, original paint job if you please, and was the last gift from my father before he died. It was currently lounging around in the garage beneath my Palo Alto apartment, being delicate and cute. I would never part with it, but was glad I wasn’t driving it in this weather. Even in the rare heavy rainfall of the Bay Area, it tends to leak.
I climbed into Mama Bigg’s hulk of a car, grateful for its protection. I started it up – one loud sucker - and pulled out. It was like driving a city bus. How a little lady managed to drive such a big car flashed through my mind.
I headed east on St. Claude Avenue toward my ultimate destination, the Orleans Harbor Marina off the Intracoastal Waterway. The stoplights were still working, doing a green, yellow, and red cha-cha-cha against the wind. Newspapers, trash, branches of leaves, the occasional umbrella, and even someone’s plaid sports coat flew by. I made my way along with the other cars still driving the streets.
Around me people were boarding up windows of businesses with heavy plywood, securing them in place with what looked like industrial staplers, Katrina still fresh in everyone’s minds. Hurricane shutters were already down over windows of small homes or apartment buildings from residences lucky enough to have them. Others were hammering two by fours in ‘x’s across frames of windows holding glass looking too fragile and vulnerable for what was going on.
All in all, I was not happy. Even the mud baths of Calistoga looked pretty good to me at this point.
I turned onto a completely deserted Almonaster Avenue, save a passing large yellow rental truck. The driver looked wide-eyed and terrified. This was the longest two mile drive of my life. Fifteen to twenty-five mile-an-hour winds whipped at me head-on from the Waterway connecting Lake Pontchartrain with the Mississippi River.
Even flooring the car, I was only going about thirty miles an hour. What should have been a six- or seven-minute drive took me twenty harrowing minutes. When I hung a left onto France Road, the wind struck from the right, pushing the SUV into the oncoming lane.
I weaved my way back and forth, grateful there were no other cars on the road. Not a half a mile further, with arms shaking from the fatigue of battling the steering wheel, I saw the turn-off for the marina.
The Ocean Harbor Marina lay hidden behind a high white stucco wall. Announcing the marina was a blue and white sign, currently laying at a peculiar angle and bobbing in rhythm with the wind. Two wrought iron gates were chained open against the walls at the entrance. No one was in the little gatehouse checking for vehicles coming and going.
I pulled over to the side of the road to allow a pickup truck and trailer burdened with a bulbous, but imposing deep-sea fishing boat named The Lucky Lady pass. The Lucky Lady was one mother out of the water, with lots of built-on antennas slashing at the winds like dueling rapiers. Both boat and trailer looked like they might blow over any minute, taking the hapless pickup with them. But of course, they were leaving this messy business behind and I was going right smack into it. Who’s sorry she’s not a boat?
I drove into the half-filled parking lot, veered off to the right, and found a parking space near the choppy water. Through the steady beat of the windshield wipers, I sat for a moment observing the controlled chaos. Ahead, dozens of crafts, all sizes and varieties, were like bucking broncos in their slips, straining at their tethers.
Then I looked for signs delineating the A to F piers and their slip numbers. Reading from right to left, the slip numbers started at one-hundred and one in the A slips, two-hundred and one in the B slips, three-hundred and one in the C, and so on. It seemed complicated to me. I mean, just start at number one, folks, why don’t you? But what do I know about the nautical mind. The closest I’ve ever come to dealing with a boat is owning a pair of deck shoes, which I wished I’d had then and there instead of clunky cowgirl boots.
With a deep sigh, I screwed my courage to the sticking post, and got out of the car. Battling the elements and people running around like they were at a Macy’s white-sale, I made my way to the wide pier separating the A from the B slips. I stood at the edge studying the scene. And it was a pip. It was all I could do to stay out of the way of frantic seafarers battening down the hatches, or whatever the hell they were doing nearest the shoreline. But at the end of the pier, where Manning’s boat had to be, there wasn’t a soul. Isn’t that always the way?
I finally homed in on slip B248 near the end of the pier. Manning’s boat was still there. When the hull wasn’t being submerged by waves, I even saw the name, Laura’s Folly, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out it was his. Richard was right; Manning had certainly come up in the world. No more thirty-two foot sailboats for him. This was a seventy-plus foot long, gorgeous piece of work. Child porn paid off well, like a two story yacht with all the fixin’s.
The interior lights were on. That meant someone was in there. Was it Manning? Probably. Was Reed with him? Hopefully. Would Manning be on the alert for intruders? You betcha.
That last thought prevented me from walking to the end of the pier and kicking down his cabin door with my size nine cowgirl boots. One man and two women were dead in less than forty-eight hours, all connected to this monster. Like Gurn said, Manning was one dangerous man.
But I had to move fast. Just because the boat was still there didn’t mean it would stay there. Boats have a way of moving around. So did Manning.
As I stood contemplating my next move, my teeth began to chatter and my jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. Time to get out of the wind, rain, and my little girly summer dress.
I ran back to the car, threw myself behind the steering wheel, and turned the motor on. Shivering and shaking, I blasted the heater, sat back, and studied the layout of the marina.
To my left, two inclined boat ramps at the water’s edge had water slopping onto the sidewalk. In the water, boats were lined up before each ramp ready to vacate the turbulent H2O elsewhere. Protected by surf breakers, a slim sailboat was in the process of being lifted out of the water by a hydraulic system. It was mesmerizing watching the hydraulic lift the dripping boat into the air. A waiting truck backed up a trailer onto the inclined ramp directly beneath the hovering boat. In this weather how they were going to plop that puppy onto the trailer in one piece was a mystery to me.
However, a youngish woman with a wet, blonde ponytail looked like the ringleader. With precise hand signals similar to those bringing in a plane to a terminal gate, she guided the five men handling the hydraulics, boat, and truck. I was impressed. As soon as the sailboat was secured on the trailer and the truck pulled away, the woman moved to the next ramp and another boat being lifted out of the water by another hydraulic. Obviously, the marina had this down to a science.
Nearly everywhere else, except at the end of Pier B - dagnabbit - people were darting about on their crafts, tying ropes down, securing items, undoing sails, storing gear, seemingly unmindful of the steady rain lashing at them or the bumpy ride onboard. Sailors are a sturdy lo
t.
In the distance, a parade of boats was motoring out of the marina’s manmade channel and into the Intracoastal Waterway. There they joined larger vessels and headed under the Danzinger Bridge. This was one busy marina and there were a lot of ways to get in and out of it.
Somewhat warmer, I turned off the car motor again, steeled myself, and got out of the car. I was immediately smacked in the face by a soggy brown paper bag. I wrestled it to the ground and made my way to the long, one-story building braced against the inside stucco walls. The extensive building contained several clubs and services marked by signs above each door i.e., Yacht Club, Fitness Center, Gaming Room, Sporting Goods Store, Mariner’s Restaurant, and so forth. Awnings made of a white eco-friendly material were already lowered in place over plate glass windows. They not only looked strong but stylish.
Remove the storm and you had one top-of-the-line, no expense spared, classy marina. The closest to this I’ve seen is the West Palm Beach Marina, where each boat has a butler and you need a credit check to use the public bathroom.
My destination was the Sporting Goods Store. Good place to start for information and maybe a rain slicker. I was cold, wet, and sick of it. I opened its door and sneezed. I thought I could feel the low pressure from the storm outside trying to get inside, but maybe it was my imagination. Can you feel low pressure? I needed to ask one of the many Al Roker’s in my life.
A middle-aged man with big ears and a woman flashing more long, white-blonde hair than I’ve seen outside of a beauty pageant, looked at me with worried smiles. Big Ears was finishing a sale with a customer dressed like the Gorton Fisherman, while Blondie was pulling out stacks of neatly folded wearing apparel from lower shelves and cramming them into higher ones. The customer scurried out into the atmosphere leaving the front door open. I hurried over, shut the door, and sneezed again.
“Sounds like you’re coming down with a cold, young lady,” the man said, this time with a genuine smile. “Why don’t you help yourself to some hot coffee?”
Big Ears tilted his balding pate in the direction of a small table burdened down under a silver coffee urn, white china coffee cups, sugar bowl, creamer, and a row of sparkling spoons, all lain out on a white damask cloth. All of a sudden, his ears didn’t look so bad to me. The expectation of a caffeine rush can do that.
DEAD....If Only (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Book 4) Page 19
