The Incident Under the Overpass

by Anne McClane

  It had only taken her an hour to produce the accounting reports this morning, even using a game she had devised called Double Time. It was one of several she had created to fill the long hours alone with nothing to do.

  There were three more Carriere properties that required reports, but they weren’t due until June fifteenth. If she completed them today, it would make next week drag on mercilessly. Not even Double Time could help her then.

  Contrary to the military sound of it, the aim of Double Time was to draw out the length of time it would take to accomplish any Trip-associated task. There weren’t enough of them to fill a forty-hour workweek. Between managing the commercial properties that provided his only non-annuity income and overseeing his vintage book collection, she might spend ten hours a week, tops, if she used her full capacity.

  The office phone rang, and Lacey was happy for the distraction. It was another new associate of Gus Savin’s calling. The antiques dealer cycled through employees every six months or so. He was calling about a potential acquisition for Trip.

  A sudden and immediate relief poured over Lacey. She was now ecstatic to be alone in the office. She would have to tell Trip about the books, but calling him simplified the process exponentially. And spared her the tale of the Great Tragic Season.

  If Trip had been present, the stage would have been set for the recounting, in minute detail, of the year when all the stars had been supposedly aligned in favor of Clayton Charles Carriere III, only to implode with the horrifying revelation of Gustav “Gus” Savin being crowned Rex instead of him. If Trip had succeeded in his quest to be King of Carnival that year, he would have been the youngest on record. Now that chance was forever lost.

  The Savin-Carriere rivalry had a delightful irony. The fifty-something bachelor, Trip, the last scion of an old New Orleans family, had only two evident passions: his antique books and his membership in the Rex Organization. Savin was the yin to his yang. He helped fuel one passion, while he was the source of Trip’s greatest agony in the other.

  Trip’s enmity usually provided some amusement. Today, it only made her head hurt. Lacey took a deep breath and dialed him from the handset on her desk.

  “Becnel, go,” he answered.

  Lacey rolled her eyes. “Trip, I just got a call about a set you might be interested in. Six of them. The theme is old cars, motor cars.”

  “Huh,” he said. “Who’s offering?”

  “Savin.”

  Silence from Trip’s end.

  “They said one of them features a nice compendium of classic advertising,” she added.

  “Huh. I’ll think about it. Thanks, Becnel, you’re a sport. I’m out.”

  Lacey hung up and knocked her head against the desk three times. She cradled her arms and laid down her head, eyes toward the big picture window. It offered a panoramic view of the Mississippi and the West Bank beyond.

  A huge freighter came into the frame of the window, headed downriver. She stood up.

  She told herself not to play the game, but it was one of her favorites. She was already guessing the ship’s registration before she could stop herself. The Philippines, she decided.

  Having no insight into maritime affairs, the game was more of an indulgent daydream, requiring no particular skill. She pictured herself on a beach on a remote Philippine island, where she would assume a brand-new identity, and no one would ever have heard of Trip Carriere, or Fox, or any Becnel.

  She spied the flag on the ship. Korea.

  Shows you how much I know.

  The ship from Korea was likely out in the Gulf of Mexico when Lacey returned from lunch. She discovered that Trip had lied. Or had ill-planned his day. Either option was equally probable.

  “Becnel!”

  She heard him before she saw him, the sound of his voice a familiar irritant. A small part of her was relieved to return to a non-empty workplace. Lacey walked to the doorway of his well-appointed office.

  “Oh, hey, Trip. Change of plans?” she asked.

  “Yes. No. Change of venue, really. I’m donating some of the duplicates for a fundraiser. I had to come by to pull them together,” he said. He was standing with his back to her, perusing the floor-to-ceiling shelves that covered the back wall.

  Lacey could have pulled the copies of the first editions herself, but she knew better. Trip would want to say goodbye to them.

  “Do we have to deliver them somewhere?” she asked.

  “No, someone’s coming by to get them. Three o’clock. Will you be here?” He still had not turned around.

  No, I’ll be halfway to Korea with the money I embezzled by then, she thought.

  “Yep, absolutely,” she said.

  “Becnel, can you come in here? And bring another container.”

  Lacey sighed. She was about to get the story of each book he was pulling, how hard it was to part with it, but how it was all for a good cause and that was why he bought duplicates whenever possible anyway.

  “Sure, be right there,” she said. She Double-Timed her way to the utility closet to gather an empty plastic storage bin.

  When she arrived at his office two minutes and twenty-one seconds later, she saw one bin already full. That was good. It meant she would only get one bin’s worth of self-absorbed prattle.

  He silently handed her a volume. Siddhartha, Hermann Hesse. Lacey held her breath, waiting for the anecdote. None came.

  It’s because he’s never read it, Lacey thought. That figures.

  “You know, this is why I buy duplicates,” Trip said.

  One side of Lacey’s mouth turned up in a smile. “What’s the fundraiser for?” she asked.

  “Oh, the homeless, I think. It’s not through Pro Bono Publico, but it’s something Evan Long’s firm is sponsoring. I owe him.”

  Lacey bit her lip. Trip didn’t mind altruism as long as it was quid pro quo. His charitable endeavors were either sanctioned by the Rex Organization’s foundation, thus elevating his stature there, or a return favor within his Uptown old boy network, thus maintaining his status there.

  Eight and a half minutes later, the task was complete. A pile of discarded clamshell packaging lay at Trip’s feet.

  “Do me a favor; tidy those up and put them in storage, Becnel?” he said.

  Somebody needs to put you in storage, you anachronistic man-child, she thought.

  She nodded silently.

  He wanted to save the pricey archival boxes for things he really cared about. She gathered them up, and wondered how she might go about stowing away on an ocean-bound freighter.

  At three p.m. sharp, the buzzer rang on the office door. Lacey had been alone for an hour, her head mired back in dread of the weekend. Expecting the pick-up for the books, she pushed the button to unlock the door from her desk without screening. She caught her breath when the doorway filled with the form of a man dressed all in white.

  “Good afternoon,” said a deep velvet baritone voice.

  “Good afternoon,” Lacey said, rising from her desk. She chided herself for the thousandth time. What good is the lock when half the time I forget to activate it, and the other half I fail to screen? she thought.

  The man in white was wearing a chef’s coat, the name “Cecil” over the left pocket. The only splash of color on his black-and-white person was a red bandana, pulling back a copious amount of dreadlocks from a moon-shaped face.

  “Can I help you?” Lacey asked.

  “I hope so,” he said. His voice sounded unreal, his projection and pitch more suited for a theater than a dead-end office. “I’m here to provide transport for something of value.”

  Lacey tilted her head, her eyes an unvoiced question mark. “The books are right over here. My boss didn’t tell me—or didn’t know—what the fundraiser is for.”

  “There is an event next Thursday night benefitting the Trinity Mission,” he said. “We are trying to raise funds to expand the Women’s Center.”

  “Oh. Well, I hope this donation will help,” Lacey
said. She stood across from the man, two plastic bins full of books between them.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Me?” Lacey pointed at her chest and stopped herself from turning around. “It’s Lacey. Lacey Becnel.” She held out her hand.

  The man reached out a giant oven mitt of a hand and returned Lacey’s greeting with a firm, quick grasp. Lacey felt a spark, and a millisecond of déjà vu, easy enough to ignore.

  “Lacey Becnel, I am Cecil,” he said. “It is a pleasure to meet you. Young Lacey, I will be providing catering services for this fundraising event. I will be shorthanded. Are you available Thursday night?” he asked, as if he wasn’t a complete stranger.

  “Oh! Me? Thursday night? I don’t know how to cater,” Lacey said. She wished she could appear cooler when flummoxed.

  Cecil’s expression was inscrutable. “There is nothing to learn,” he said. “Can you follow instructions?”

  “I think so,” she said.

  “And are you available this coming Thursday?” he repeated.

  “Um…” Lacey scanned her memory. Dinner with Fox’s aunt was next Tuesday.

  “Um, I think I’m free Thursday,” she said. She wanted to invent something, like a sick relative, but was afraid of the karmic implications. Stupid karma, she thought.

  “Very good,” Cecil said. He bent down and picked up the two large bins. Stacked atop each other, they only came to his neck. They would have completely covered Lacey from her waist to the top of her head.

  “Come to Mardi Gras World at six p.m., Thursday night. Dress in black. Functional clothes.” Cecil walked to the door.

  Lacey passed him to open it. “How should I contact you?” she asked. She had an instant regret for agreeing to sacrifice an evening to someone she had just met, and to cater, at that. She’d never even waited tables. “What if I can’t make it? I’d like to let you know.”

  Cecil’s face lit up in a smile that turned his moon of a face into the sun. “You will be there. You won’t regret it. See you Thursday, young Lacey.” Cecil carried the bins down the hallway as if he were carrying a tray full of cookies. He didn’t turn around, even as he waited for the elevator.

  Lacey closed the office door and cursed herself. How could she know if he was legitimate? What if he was a serial killer posing as a benevolent chef, luring naive, unsuspecting rubes to his Mardi Gras World lair? She thought of Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs.

  She rushed—not Double Time—to her computer and looked up events at Mardi Gras World. Sure enough, Thursday evening, seven p.m.: A Time to Shine, a Benefit for the Trinity Mission. On the page were links selling tickets (Less than thirty tickets left!) and a call for volunteers (No experience required!)

  Damn.

  She resolved to check in with Angele before, during, and after, so if she wound up in a dark pit putting “lotion on its skin”, she wouldn’t have to wait too long for someone to know she was missing.

  3

  Sixteen Hours Earlier

  Lacey hadn’t expected such a quick response from her best friend. She had waited until Saturday morning to text her, a single line: Got a story. She guessed Angele’s production schedule might not be so tight on the weekend. Still, she was surprised to see Angele Lee calling her phone less than a minute after she sent the text.

  Angele didn’t ask about Lacey’s story. Instead, she jumped right into a pitch for Lacey to meet her and her Hollywood-type coworkers out that night, at a bar on Harrison Avenue called Patton’s. Angele feigned shock when Lacey agreed without any prompting or cajoling.

  “If you’re coming out just so you can draw me into your pity party, I’m revoking the invitation immediately,” Angele said over the phone.

  “Please! How long have you known me?” Lacey asked, a smile cracking her face for the first time that day.

  “Long enough to know that given the opportunity, you could spend five solid hours moping about your dead husband and your dead-end job,” Angele answered.

  “Jesus. You’re either the meanest or most judgmental friend a girl could ever have,” Lacey said.

  “I’m neither, just honest,” Angele said. “You could use more honesty in your life.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “And because I’m so honest, I’ll tell you that the Dakota Kid will be there,” Angele said.

  “You know I don’t care about that stuff anymore,” Lacey responded.

  “Bullshit,” Angele said. “I’m done talking. Wait. What’s your story?”

  “It’s nothing,” Lacey said. “I just got drafted into some volunteer work next week. I’ll tell you about it when I see you.”

  “Good,” Angele said. “Sounds like another chance to get you out of your grief cocoon. Can’t wait to hear about it.”

  “I’m sure. See you tonight.”

  Lacey was proud of herself for being excited. She was sure Angele wouldn’t believe her enthusiasm was authentic, but that didn’t matter. She needed something to get her out of her dark funk. Meeting up with her best friend from childhood, and the exuberant young actor she had dubbed the Dakota Kid, stood as good a chance as any of breaking her melancholy spell.

  Angele had hinted that part of her job was keeping an eye on the up-and-comer Kevin Horner, who was fulfilling a contractual obligation by appearing in a Lifetime movie being shot in New Orleans. It was the second of a slate of three movies he had signed on to before Entanglement, a big-budget, big-director, big-star picture Lacey had read about in Entertainment Weekly. According to Angele, Kevin Horner would be a star after it released at Christmas.

  Lacey was secretly curious to meet him. She thought of the marathon phone conversations she and Angele had as preteens, hours debating the merits of Zack over Slater and vice versa.

  That evening, Lacey applied her makeup in the guest bathroom; the light was better in there. Her giant dog, Ambrose, poked his head through the doorway. It was the only bathroom with a tub, and he enjoyed sitting and soaking, especially in the summer months.

  “Sorry, Bro, no bath for you tonight. I’m actually going out!” she said.

  He shook his massive head and nudged the door wide open as he left, disappointed. Lacey had long ago ceased to be amazed by the dog’s comprehension. It was something she took for granted.

  Lacey spent too much time staring at her closet, anxious about how she would appear to Angele’s coworkers. She had lost fifteen pounds since Fox died, and her hair was longer than it had been in years. She had not done much to keep her wardrobe up to date. Her options were limited to a few things she had purchased on a recent shopping trip with Angele.

  She pulled out the jeans Angele had made her buy: on-trend and long so that she had to wear heels. She had to admit they did fit like a glove as she pulled them on. She paired them with a V-neck, fitted T-shirt whose design was meaningless to her. It promoted the athletic department of a high school in Indiana. When she had protested the randomness of the message on that same shopping trip, Angele had turned Lacey to the side so she could see her profile, told her vintage was still in, and finally to “Get over it”.

  Lacey still didn’t get it as she looked in the mirror, but she liked the way it gave her a sporty vibe.

  She ran some product through her hair. Her tawny-colored waves fell just right, a rare occurrence. Staring at her reflection, Lacey felt she was looking at a stranger. Her patrician nose and green eyes stood out more on her leaner face. I’m almost as skinny as Angele, she thought. But it was an impossible comparison. Lacey had been five five and curvy when she had started college, and five seven by the time she graduated. Angele had been five foot nothing since she was fourteen, and had tiny proportions, like a doll.

  Lacey went to the side table near the front door, where she kept her purse and keys. She opted against a purse and instead stuffed some cash and her ID into the pocket of her jeans, leaving just enough room for her car key. She could just carry her phone, or leave it in the car.

 
Ambrose shuffled up to her as she was arranging her things and giving herself one last check in the entryway mirror.

  “Think you can take care of things while I go out for a little bit?” she asked.

  “Woof,” he replied in a low register.

  “I know I didn’t even need to ask,” she said, scratching his head behind the ears. His summertime shave-down recently completed, she was happy her attention wasn’t repaid as it usually was, with a fistful of dog hair.

  She went out through the side door, the one in the laundry room that opened onto General Haig Street. She had a good hiding place for her house key on that side of the house.

  Lacey thumped her fingers on the steering wheel of her Honda Accord as she made the short drive down Marconi. The light was falling just the way she liked it, the oak trees forming dark silhouettes against an azure background. The sky that peeked out from the canopy was punctuated with silver clouds. It felt like a good omen. She almost wanted the drive to last longer.

  Parking would be a mess on Harrison, what with the dinner crowds out at all the eateries. She didn’t mind walking a bit, but any real distance might be a challenge in the wedge heels she was wearing.

  She considered herself lucky to find a spot in the marked spaces on the neutral ground, right across from Patton’s. Fox had insisted on calling the strip dividing the streets a median, like the rest of the country, instead of the neutral ground, like the rest of New Orleans, which Lacey always found peculiar, for someone so dyed in the wool about everything else concerning southern Louisiana. She reminded herself to let it go. It could be the neutral ground, now. She no longer needed to defend her choice.

  She got out, pushed a button on her key to lock the car, and then turned around at the same time she was attempting to stuff the key in her pocket. She looked up at the gloaming sky—the faint outline of the new moon had appeared—and missed her pocket. The key dropped to the ground and skipped about a foot, just enough to land behind her in a ditch. Not just a ditch, but a gaping maw marked off with barricades and a few cones. Construction work on that part of Harrison Avenue was a constant.