“So that’s what they’re trying to hide,” Sullivan said, making a few notes and studying them for a moment.
“Apparently. There could be more, of course. They’re full of secrets over there. The only thing I don’t know,” I said, “is who killed Dontae, and why? And where has Monroe disappeared to now?”
“I’ll check out the robbery and murder and see if I can find anything more.” He looked away from his notebook and grinned. “You did good, Lucero.”
Aw, shucks. I put together a second helping of cake and passed the plate to him. “Any word on how the poison got into Dontae’s system?”
“The arsenic was in a bowl of pudding we found in his room. It was in a bowl from the Love Nest, so we’re assuming it was made there in the kitchen. Maybe served at dinner. Dontae must have taken his bowl back to his room.”
“So the others ate the pudding, as well?”
“We’re assuming that at least some of them did, but we don’t know for sure. Like I said, we’re having a devil of a time getting those old people to talk. Since everyone else is still alive, we’re proceeding on the assumption that his portion was the only one with poison in it.” Sullivan stopped speaking and attacked the cake as if we weren’t discussing a deadly poison.
“What about fingerprints?”
“Unfortunately, there weren’t any on the bowl. At least none that help us. We found a couple of clear prints, but they belong to the victim, It looks like he’s the one who carried the pudding to his room, but we have no idea who served it.” He finished the cake and sat back with a satisfied smile. “You managed to learn a whole lot more than I did. What’s your take on Hyacinth Fiske?”
“She’s hard to read,” I said. “She’s had a tough life and she’s brusque and bossy, but she doesn’t seem to mind that her friends let her husband go to prison alone. She’s definitely the head honcho at the Love Nest. Everybody else seems intimidated by her. She probably made the pudding, and she’s one of several with the means and opportunity to poison Dontae’s bowl, but she had no reason I know of to kill him, and she claims she doesn’t hold a grudge against Monroe.”
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
One by one, he asked me about the others. I told him about Grey’s volunteer service at the library and his penchant for dressing up in costume. Did that make him crazy or dedicated? I still didn’t know.
I told him how angry Cleveland was with Monroe, and how he’d threatened to kill Monroe with his bare hands. But had he actually tried? I filled him in on Lula Belle’s checkered past, Primrose’s avid fantasy life, and the change of heart that had taken Pastor Rod from the getaway car to the pulpit. And I told him about Tamarra, who apparently knew the whole story and wanted desperately to keep it a secret.
“What about alibis? Any luck with those?” Sullivan asked.
I laughed and picked up our empty plates. “I wish. Cleveland says that he was in his room alone. We know that Primrose found the body, and I ran into Antwon and Tamarra coming out of their room at the same time Ga—” I stopped. Flushed. “They were running downstairs at the same time I was. It’s not easy to get those people to talk.”
“Tell me about it.” Sullivan turned serious. “You should know that we’ve issued a BOLO for Monroe. He’s not being called a suspect yet, but he is considered a person of interest.”
I wasn’t surprised, but I was disappointed. “Maybe he’s running because he knows who did it,” I suggested. “And if he knows who did it, maybe he’s in danger. Have you even considered that?”
“Of course we have.”
“Are you taking precautions to protect him?”
“How, Rita? We have no idea where he is. We’re watching the airport, bus stations, and Amtrak, but so far there’s no sign of him. Maybe someone is trying to kill him, but we have to find him before we can protect him.”
Yeah. I got that. “Maybe you can track down his family. His wife is dead, but he has kids and grandchildren who might be in Oregon somewhere. Pastor Rod said he doesn’t see them often, but he may have tried to contact one of them.” I felt a little swell of panic start to build in my chest. “It’s important to find him, Liam. I don’t think Dontae was supposed to die. I think the poison was meant for Monroe. The killer might still be after him. If he’s worried for his life, he’ll never resurface.”
Sullivan stood and brushed a lock of hair from my cheek with a gentleness that surprised me. “I have some bad news for you, darlin’. I don’t think he’s going to resurface anyway. At least not in this decade.”
That was so not the response I wanted. I could only hope that Monroe had lost his edge since the last time he disappeared. But I was afraid that asking all of the NOPD to be on the lookout for him would only push Monroe further underground and almost guarantee that Dog Leg would lose his brother again.
And maybe this time, he’d lose him for good.
Thirty
I finished work on the dragon’s tail and then walked with the rest of the staff to the Dizzy Duke to unwind.
Gabriel was behind the bar looking sexy in a tight black T-shirt and even tighter jeans. The image of him in bed next to me flashed through my head, and I swear I could feel the weight of his leg pinning me against the mattress. Those memories got all wrapped up in confusion over the way we’d parted yesterday and my reaction to seeing Sullivan that afternoon. Gabriel acknowledged my presence with a lift of his chin. I smiled back, but he didn’t seem eager to talk to me so I asked for some liquid courage in the form of a margarita, light on the tequila. I figured that gave me an even chance of getting one that would leave me capable of walking when I finished it. Gabriel’s a true master at the art of the margarita, and his salt-to-glass ratio is the best I’ve encountered yet, but I worried that no drink—light on the tequila or otherwise—would be enough to fortify me for what lay ahead tonight.
I carried my margarita to the stage where the band was setting up for the night. Maybe I should have waited for Gabriel to take a break so we could talk to Old Dog Leg together. Delivering bad news made my breath catch. I’d rather pipe buttercream in a basket-weave pattern over the Saint Louis Cathedral. But I also knew that I had to tell Dog Leg about his brother’s part in the robbery and murder of the night security guard forty years ago before the police made a statement.
Old Dog Leg was there with the rest of the band, laughing about something I guess only musicians understand. Eventually the laughter faded and the others drifted away to plug in equipment, tune instruments, and order drinks. I sat on the edge of the stage and watched Old Dog Leg clean his trumpet mouthpiece, waiting for the right moment to let him know I was there.
“You gonna speak up or just watch me?” he asked after a minute or two.
I laughed, a little embarrassed at being caught. “I should know better than to think you’re not aware.”
“Yeah. You should.” He grinned to show that he was teasing and asked, “You got news for me, eh?”
“Yeah. I do. Can we go someplace private?”
Dog Leg tilted his head toward me. “Dat bad, is it?”
“It’s . . . sensitive,” I said.
Very deliberately he put his trumpet in its case, settled a herringbone newsboy cap on his head, and reached for his white cane. “Okay, den. Let’s take a walk.”
I led him through the bar and out onto the sidewalk where the air was still and hot and heavy. Dog Leg pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face, leaning heavily on his cane as he did. I’d never seen him truly show his age before, and it shook me to see him looking so old now.
“What you find out?” he asked as he put the handkerchief away again.
I glanced around to make sure I could find an empty bench and saw one about half a block away. “Do you want to sit?”
“Not especially. Say what you gotta say, Rita. I can take it.”
Maybe he could, but I wasn’t so sure I could. Perspiration beaded on my nose an
d upper lip. From the heat? Or nerves? Maybe both. “I found out that Monroe used to work with several of the people who live at the bed-and-breakfast. Some of the people I mentioned to you last time we talked.”
“I remember.”
“One of those men told me that forty years ago, they were all involved in a robbery that went bad. A security guard was killed in the process.”
Dog Leg’s entire body went still. “You sayin’ Monroe was part of it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s why he took off last time.”
Dog Leg pushed the hat back on his head, settled it back in place, and then moved it again. “So he was in on a murder.”
I couldn’t just leave it like that, so I plunged on. “I was told that they’d planned the robbery so they could be in and out before the guard came by on his rounds. But apparently Monroe tripped an alarm accidentally, and the guard came back early. They were disguised and they tried to get out, but Monroe called one of the other men by name. The guard recognized them and pulled his weapon.”
“Who shot him?”
“A guy named Willie Fiske. He was the leader of the group, I guess. He took the fall, went to prison, and died there. Willie’s widow and his sister-in-law are the ones who own the inn where Monroe was staying. You remember Lula Belle? She’s Willie’s sister, and she lives there, too, along with some of the men who were in on the robbery.”
“Dese people hate my brother.”
“I don’t know about hate, but some of them blame him for what happened back then, yes. Others claim to be more forgiving. At this point I still don’t know who is lying and who is telling the truth.”
“And dat’s why Monroe ran off.”
“I haven’t been able to ask him, but that’s what I’m guessing.”
“Stupid damn fool.” Dog Leg mopped his face again and lifted his face to the night sky. “Stupid. I told dat boy a million times you don’t trust nobody. I told him everybody’s got an angle. I told him people would use him. Would he listen to me? No! Monroe never listened to nobody. Always said he knew what he was doing. Didn’t need nobody to look after him. Well, look what good it did him. He’s in some kind of mess now, too, isn’t he?”
“It sure looks like it,” I said.
Dog Leg nodded slowly, but I could tell he was having a rough time with the news I’d just delivered. He ran a handkerchief along the back of his neck. “And de man who was killed on Friday night?”
“He was one of the men who took part in the robbery. I still don’t know how his death is related exactly, but I’m sure it is.” I wasn’t so worried about Monroe right then. Dog Leg had my full attention. “Are you all right? Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m just wonderin’ how my mother ever gave birth to sucha damn fool.” He turned his face to the street and tried to compose himself, but anger poured from him as thick and heavy as the humidity in the air. “You still don’t have no idea where he is?”
“None,” I said. “Apparently, he was married and lived in Oregon for many years. He has children and grandchildren there, so he may be going back home. He hasn’t tried to contact you, has he?”
“I’d of told you if he had.”
“I really don’t know where else to look,” I said. “But I hope the police will be able to track him down soon.”
“De police? What dey gonna do to him?”
“They’ll bring him in for questioning,” I said. “Maybe he can help them catch Dontae’s killer.”
Dog Leg shook his head and gave a sharp laugh. “You t’ink de police gonna just talk to him, you don’t know how my world works. Dey t’ink he’s guilty of killin’ a man, Monroe won’t be around to answer questions.”
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said. “Sullivan’s on the case, and you’ve met him. You know he won’t let something like that happen.”
But Dog Leg wasn’t listening. He let his cane clatter to the ground, and he grabbed my hands in his. “You gotta find him, Rita. Find dat idiot brother of mine ’fore somebody else do.”
I didn’t have the resources or the time, or any idea where to start. But my mouth and my brain weren’t working in sync. My heart took control and I heard myself say, “Okay. I’ll try.”
I might as well have promised to fly to the moon. I probably had a better chance of succeeding at that.
Thirty-one
Miss Frankie picked me up promptly at nine on Wednesday morning to go look at the properties she was thinking of selling. I filled a couple of travel mugs with coffee and carried them out to the car, stashing them in cup holders while we buckled ourselves in for the ride.
She was wearing a tan linen pantsuit and a pair of sensible shoes suitable for walking. Her hair had been teased and sprayed so that it would hold up in any weather, and she carried a clipboard loaded with a small stack of papers. I was much more casual in a pair of spice-wash bell-bottom jeans, a striped boatneck T-shirt, and Tory Burch flats I’d picked up at a sale a few weeks earlier.
“I sorted the list by location,” Miss Frankie said when she saw me eying the clipboard. “I asked Thaddeus’s assistant to print driving directions, so we should be all set. You navigate. I’ll drive.”
She weaved in and out of traffic while I gave her directions to the first three locations on the list. The first was a small white frame office building located on a busy street corner in the Rivertown District, the second a recently deserted building that had once housed a tire store and a car wash, and the third a small lot on an industrial parkway complete with a tiny two-room building that, according to Miss Frankie’s property manager, could be used as a restaurant or a residence. None of the buildings were worth much, but Thaddeus believed the land would bring in a sizeable chunk of cash.
We made notes, discussed options, and headed for the fourth property on our list: a large gutted space that had once been a corner grocery store in a depressed area of town. The clouds gathered as we drove. We parked a couple of blocks from the store and started walking. A block from the car, lightning flashed and the skies opened up, dumping rain on us like someone had overturned a bucket.
Miss Frankie gasped in shock and held her purse over her head. I calculated that the purse would keep her dry for about three seconds and another lightning bolt convinced me we had to find someplace to get out of the storm.
Going all the way back to the car wouldn’t be safe, but our other choices were limited. There was a pawnshop of questionable nature across the street, or a bar—equally questionable—on the corner. Neither option appealed to me, but a flash of lightning and the pop and sizzle of a strike nearby convinced me that we needed to get inside fast.
I grabbed Miss Frankie by the hand and tugged her toward our closest option—the bar. “Come on!” I said, wiping rainwater from my face so I could see.
“Where?”
“There.” I jerked my head toward the bar, and in doing that I saw a third choice I hadn’t previously noticed. Next to the bar sat a small building with a cross on the front. Figuring that a church would be safer than the bar, I changed course and splashed through a puddle that soaked my new shoes and the hems of my pants. Miss Frankie’s linen suit was plastered to her, and I discovered that there are limits to even Aqua Net’s holding power.
Breathless and laughing a little at our bedraggled appearances, we pushed open the church’s door and stepped into a small foyer roughly the size of a postage stamp. A heavy iron candelabrum hung on one wall. Beneath it sat one lopsided chair. I urged Miss Frankie toward the chair and shook rain from my hair while I looked around for someone in charge.
“Hello? Is anyone here?”
I heard a rustling sound and the hush of footsteps on carpet, and then a man came around the corner. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me, and my mouth fell open in dismay when I recognized him.
“Mrs. Broussard! What are you doing here?”
A wave of panic washed over me. I felt like a small
child who’d just been caught holding the broken pieces of her aunt’s favorite vase. Out of nowhere, I realized I’d been caught in a lie—several of them in fact. I tried to catch Miss Frankie’s eye so I could signal her to play along, but she wasn’t looking at me. She had collapsed into the chair just a moment before, but now she stood and offered up her charming Southern-hospitality smile. “I’m Frances Renier, Rita’s mother-in-law. How do you know Rita?”
Pastor Rod walked past me, hand extended. “Rod Kinkle. I’m the pastor here at the Fifth Street Church. I met Mrs. Broussard this weekend at the Love Nest Bed and Breakfast. She and her husband were on their honeymoon. If you’re her mother-in-law, I guess that makes Gabriel your son?”
Of all the churches in all the world, I had to walk into his. Dear God, please strike me dead. Now! It was one thing to play honeymoon with Gabriel where it didn’t really affect Miss Frankie, but I saw a wounded look slip across her face as Pastor Rod talked, and the game changed in that moment.
She turned toward me slowly. “Gabriel. Yes. The honeymoon.” She’s always unfailingly polite in public, and I’m sure no one else could have heard the pain in her voice. No one else knew how hard it was for her to pretend that Gabriel was her son, even for a moment. But I knew, and the guilt stole my breath away.
“I can explain,” I said again. But before I got a chance, someone else came out of the sanctuary and my explanation was swallowed up by confusion. “Monroe Magee? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” Monroe countered, swearing under his breath when he recognized me. Pastor Rod shot him a warning look.
“We got caught in the storm,” I said. “I didn’t realize this was Pastor Rod’s church.” We all stood there for several uncomfortable seconds, waiting for someone to speak. Or maybe I should say, I waited for one of them to speak. Everyone else seemed to be waiting on me.
I mopped rainwater and nervous perspiration from my forehead with a sleeve. I knew I should call Sullivan immediately and tell him I’d found Monroe, but I convinced myself that turning in the missing Magee could wait a few minutes. “So this is where you disappeared to,” I said, stating the obvious. “Have you been here ever since Dontae died?”
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