I hugged him, and he clung to me like a baby monkey. The guard cleared his throat, and I gently disengaged.
"An indictment appearance has been scheduled for Monday. Harry's barrister will be attempting to have me released on bail." He shook his head. "Harry has no money lying around for this expense. He doesn't even have the money to meet the balloon payment coming due on the remodel at The Mansion. I was working on gathering money to help him with that. And now the poor man is struggling to come up with extra money for the bond? Whatever will we do?"
"Of course, you were trying to help him with the balloon payment."
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Fabrizio," I began slowly, not wanting to get to the end of my question and hear the answer. "The ten thousand they found in your room? That wouldn't happen to be how you were planning to help Harry Villars, would it?"
He looked at me in horror. "Oh, no, my dear, please tell me you don't actually believe I would steal money from that poor woman, no matter how desperate I was."
I felt terrible, like the world's worst friend. I couldn't believe I'd even asked him that. "I'm sorry." My voice sounded small and high pitched, like a child's.
He swallowed hard. "That was indeed the money I planned to get for Harry, but I planned to get it by giving that woman the best bloody séance ever held anytime, anywhere." He twisted his mouth as if the even the words were bitter." Not by stealing it."
Of course he didn't steal it. He no more stole the ten thousand than he had killed her. How could I even think such a thing? That was when it struck me. "Fabrizio, did either you or Harry happen to mention this looming balloon payment when you were interviewed by Deputy Boudreaux?" I held my breath.
He didn't answer right away, but I could see the wheels turning in his brain as he thought back. Slowly, he nodded. "Yes. I did mention it to the deputy."
Damnation. No wonder Quincy was all hot to trot to pin this deal on Fabrizio. That dear, sweet, clueless man had provided his own outstanding motive.
Well, Mel, might as well get it over with. "Fabrizio, when was the last time you happened to be out in the old boathouse?"
"Boathouse? Why, never that I can think of. I can't swim, Melanie, my dear. Why would I ever want to go out in a boat?"
* * *
I caught a taxi down to the ferry dock, and George ferried me across the Big Muddy with four holdovers from the Dead-and-Loving-It Zombie Fan Club. It seemed like all the three guys and one girl could talk about was how awesome their annual banquet had turned out to be at The Mansion, and how they wouldn't have asked for a better theme than a murder, and better yet, the victim was possibly done in by a ghost, no less.
I kept my mouth shut and tried to ignore them. But if I was honest, I was beginning to wonder if Terrence didn't kill her—he needed her…and if Billy didn't kill her—she gave him whatever he wanted…and if Rosalyn didn't kill her—while there was no love lost between the two women, I just didn't believe Rosalyn had it in her. Then who did it? That left us with two suspects: Penny the Psychic and Theodore the Disembodied. And as far as I could tell, Penny didn't have a motive. Maybe the zombie lovers were onto something after all.
A Saturday morning in mid-July and the French Quarter was buzzing like a swarm of African bees on crack. I made my way through dense crowds of sunburned tourists, my hands both firmly gripping my LeSportsac against the light-fingered locals sure to be out and about on a day with as many possible marks as this one. Two blocks northeast along Decatur past the French Market on one side and the scads of po'boy shops, restaurants, T-shirt shops, and other tourist haunts on the other—over to Dumaine Street—three blocks up to mine and Cat's place.
I walked out of the direct sunlight through the wrought iron gate and into the shady retreat and restfulness of our courtyard. The four downstairs units in our building all opened out onto it. Our landlord, Mrs. Peabody, who lived in the four-bedroom unit next to ours, was perched on the built-up brick flowerbed, pruning her geraniums, a midsummer explosion of bright red among the faded brick, dark-green shutters, and white-trimmed French doors. A magnolia tree alive with blossoms hung over two French-style wrought iron benches.
The mix of aromas was heady. It smelled like home, my home—magnolias, baking bread, garlic, and that musty, old-world sort of scent unique to le Vieux Carré.
I walked through the double doors of our apartment into the main room. Cat's and my place was awesome, the essence of luxury, in my book anyway, especially compared with Grandmama Ida's double-shotgun house, where Mama and me lived while I was growing up. Grandmama Ida and Granddaddy Joe lived in one side. After my daddy left for greener pastures when I was five, Granddaddy Joe eighty-sixed the tenants and moved me and Mama into the other side. Granddaddy Joe built a divider in Mama's bedroom. They put my cot, an old chest of drawers Grandmama took in trade for a perm and a cut, my box of toys, a few pegs on the wall to hang my clothes, a Princess Jasmine rug, and my small wooden easel behind the divider. It became my room.
Cat and I combined our incomes, and she chipped in part of the healthy allowance she received from her Romanian parents in Atlanta. They'd joined the ranks of the nouveau riche when they sold their European textile import business to Williams-Sonoma. As part of their sales agreement, they received a sweet discount on household furniture and design items, and our entire apartment was decked out in an upscale arts and crafts style. Without the allowance and discount contingencies, we never would have been able to afford to live in a place like that.
Cat and Satchmo were curled up on the sofa, watching Emeril Lagasse make Peach Melba.
Satchmo jumped off the sofa and came to rub up against my leg when he saw me, and Cat paused the video.
"You talk to your traitor boyfriend this morning?" I wasn't playing fair, but then again, I wasn't in a mood to play fair.
"Oh," she said, sighing. "This is all my fault now, is it?"
That was one thing about Catalina Gabor. She was not only beautiful, loyal, and intelligent, she was also in possession of more common sense than everyone else I knew put together. "Point made," I said. "Sorry. You can't help it if your boyfriend's Benedict Arnold."
"Mel, he feels real bad about having to charge Fabrizio. He told me."
"Speaking of the devil, I'm surprised he's not all snuggled up next to you since I'm not here to inhibit him."
"Funny you should say that. He's coming over later, sez he wants to hang out in his underwear and make love all over since we have the place to ourselves."
I gave her a look, and she added, "Don't worry. I'm locking your bedroom door."
She got up from the sofa, padded through the archway into the kitchen, and set her coffee cup in the sink. I followed her in. She turned and started back but stopped and stood framed in one of the two archways that led from the parlor to our gorgeous eat-in kitchen with the granite countertops. It was really annoying how stunning she looked in her pj boy-shorts and cami top with no makeup and her hair all wild around her face. On my days off under the same circumstances, if you opened the dictionary to "frumpy," a picture of me with my hair in a ponytail, in my oversized sleep shirt and socks, is probably what you'd see there. Cat always told me that was when I was my most adorable, but she was my best friend and obligated to say that.
I slipped a pod into the coffeemaker, hit the brew button, and told her about my visit with Fabrizio and how worried I was.
"If he's actually indicted on Monday, that will free up the Elway party to leave and fly back to Philadelphia. They'll be out of reach, and Fabrizio will be screwed f'true."
She agreed things were getting scary.
"I'm gonna shower then catch a bus over to Holy Cross."
"I'm heading on over to Rouses on Royal to get groceries—Quincy's beer and a couple of muffulettas for later. You need anything?"
"No, chère," I said. "Both Harry and Jack seem all right with me staying at The Mansion for a while, at least until this big old mess gets cleaned up. So it looks l
ike Valentine will be feeding me for a couple of days." I grinned at her.
"Oh, my word," she said, heavy on the drama, "what a terrible inconvenience. Eating that gourmet cooking. Staying where you're with that handsome Cap'n Jack all the time. Having housekeeping come and take care of every little ol' thing you need."
She stopped abruptly, seeming to think about what she'd said. "Don't mind me, girl. I always open my mouth and put my whole foot in it. You go. You do what you have to do. Whatever it takes to get Fabrizio out of that terrible place and back where he belongs with Mr. Villars and the rest of us." She headed for her bedroom on the far side of the apartment, tossing back over her shoulder, "And when you see your mama and grandmama today at St. Antoine's, you give 'em both a big old kiss for me."
* * *
Wearing my grungiest work clothes, I caught a bus east to the Holy Cross neighborhood, where a work crew had already gathered hours earlier to work on St. Antoine's. Because I'd come all the way from the west bank, I was the last to arrive, just in time to help Mama and Grandmama Ida lay out the lunch spread they'd brought. Fried chicken, potato salad, hush puppies, and lemonade. You think that "Colonel" from Kentucky had an awesome secret recipe? Let me just say his chicken is a distant runner-up to Grandmama Ida's.
Desi Lopez walked up to me and slung one arm across my shoulders. "Hey, bella, what's shakin'?"
"Oh, you know, Desi, another day, another fifty cents."
Desi Lopez de Monterra was a local piano player. He worked the Bourbon Street bars and hotel lounges in the Quarter, everything from Scott Joplin to Ludwig Van Beethoven. Desi was half-Cuban, half-Creole. He was smallish, on the skinny side, but every inch a ladies' man. His mocha-latte skin was the envy of every woman who knew him.
Desi was good people. I'd known him to be out on a gig until the wee hours of the morning then turn right around and head to St. Antoine's to paint, or dig, or whatever work was planned for the day.
In his free hand he held a paper plate piled high with my grandmama's chicken. He leaned over the table and pinched her papery cheek. "Sweet Ida, mamacita, maybe you can see 'bout finding a man another glass of that nice cold lemonade?"
Grandmama giggled. A rare occurrence. She was known to snicker, harrumph, or laugh out loud. But only Desi ever made her giggle.
Father Brian came up behind me, his blue eyes full of humor, and handed me a bottle of stain, a bucket of shellac, a paintbrush, a tack cloth, and several sheets of sandpaper. I took them one by one until my arms overflowed with stuff.
"Just in time, girl." He smiled his wide smile and cocked his grey shaggy head to one side. "I knew you'd show up here sooner or later. I can always count on you, Melanie, and you know every time you show up here you're piling up frequent flyer miles in Heaven."
I laughed. Father Brian was good at making people laugh. When Katrina washed out our beautiful church, I had just graduated from high school and was looking for a high-dollar fine arts and graphic arts program on a nearly nonexistent budget.
Father Brian had only been at St. Antoine's a few months and had more trouble than he could shake a stick at, what with half his church floating down river. Yet he somehow managed to find the time, energy, and patience to help me send a résumé and letter to Loyola University in my own sweet hometown and to help me navigate my way through the myriad of grants and scholarships once I was accepted there. His generous, loving nature was a good part of the reason I showed up at St. Antoine's to help whenever I possibly could and why I gave as much extra pocket money as I could come up with to help the members buy building materials to restore the church. The other part was how much St. Antoine's Parish contributed to the community and its great need.
Because I had no hands left, he reached around me and fastened a paper mask over my nose and mouth, turned me around, and sort of shoved me in the general direction of where all the work was being done on the new pews.
Within a half hour my hair, face, and clothes were covered in sanding dust. I was sweaty, and all that grit was turning into paste on my face and arms. The wax-on, wax-off motion I'd been doing on my hands and knees would have me moving funny tomorrow.
It was hard work, but Grandmama and some of the other older ladies kept coming around with pitchers of lemonade, and Desi's boom box blasted out upbeat Harry Connick Jr. tunes to keep us moving along.
I was tired and couldn't wait to go home and have a shower. I figured I must have looked like hell, but who cared—nobody was going to see me looking like this. It wasn't like any prospective boyfriends were going to show up or—
"Melanie?"
I knew that voice.
"There you are."
Really? Just shoot me now.
I looked up and—yessiree—there stood Cap'n Jack looking spectacular in a pair of black jeans, black suede chukka boots, and a grey tie-dyed Henley that fit him like he was born in it, with the sleeves pushed up on his forearms. I, on the other hand, looked like a really dusty bag lady.
Just perfect.
"Hi," I said, sitting back on my heels.
He smiled and reached down for my hand, helping me to my feet. I couldn't meet his eyes. I probably looked like the sole survivor of some freakish wall of dust in the middle of the Sahara Desert.
"Jack," I mumbled. "I'm…surprised to see you here."
He grinned, that lopsided grin that always went straight to my heart. A light came into his eyes, and it occurred to me maybe I wasn't as horrific a sight as I originally thought.
He lifted his hands and gently pulled down the disposable paper mask that covered my face from the bridge of my nose to my chin. His grin broadened. "I knew you were under there somewhere."
Self-conscious, I pulled the bandana off my head and ran my fingers through my hair, promptly depositing all the grit from hands to my scalp. Forget the shower—I'd have to walk through a car wash at the very least.
"It's just incredible what you do here, Mel," he said. "I'm so proud of you."
I think I stood up a little straighter and pulled back my shoulders, just out of pleasure.
"Harry Villars mentioned how you do this on your time off. I have to tell you it's one of the reasons I've sought you out. I was really intrigued by a young woman whose main interest isn't shopping or hair salons or gossip."
He caught me by surprise again. I didn't know what to say, and he seemed to sense it.
"Can you take a short break?" he asked. "I've learned some things I think you'll find interesting, to say the least."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I went to find Father Brian, who lay prone on the concrete floor, drill whirring madly as he and two others installed the pulpit sent over from a parish in Baton Rouge he'd had refinished last week, the week before all this craziness started at The Mansion.
When I introduced Jack, Father Brian turned off the drill and reached up from the floor to shake Jack's hand.
"Do you mind if I take a quick break, Father?" I asked. "There's new information on the murder." I knew someone was bound to have told him about the goings-on over at Mystic Isle.
Father Brian's eyes lit up. "Excellent. I always say nothing gets your blood up like a good homicide investigation." He seemed to realize what that sounded like, so he added, "Not that I endorse homicides, mind you…"
Jack, smooth as silk, handled it just right. "I like a good mystery myself, Father. And, like me, I'm sure you prefer yours to be fiction."
Father Brian sort of saluted, which made me wonder if I'd ever called my boss Cap'n Jack in front of him, then he turned the drill back on and went back to work on the base of the pulpit.
Jack and I walked outside and stopped under the shade of the sole surviving magnolia tree on the church property. The lush scent of magnolia blossoms hung in the air like perfume. Jack sat down on the grass and pulled me down beside him.
I went easily, even if thoughts of chiggers and mosquitos weren't far from my mind. Being with him was the important thing, and I didn't want to spoil the mo
ment by bringing up the issue of itchy welts that would drive even a nun to cursing, not to mention West Nile virus.
"I called an old…" He paused, seeming to search for the right word. "An old friend who moved from NYC to Philadelphia a couple of years back. She used to be on the job in Manhattan and now works for Philly PD."
She? My she-bitch radar went to DEFCON 1.
"Your policeman friend is a woman?" I prayed my voice didn't reveal the jealousy brewing in my heart.
Ah-ha! Not a friend, a girlfriend.
He didn't seem to notice I was turning green. His voice was matter of fact. "We used to date some when she lived in the City. She moved down to Philly to get married."
Hallelujah.
"I asked her to see what she could find on Theodore Elway's death."
I held my breath as he absentmindedly took hold of my hand and began to rub his thumb over it. At first I nearly pulled back, wondering how he could possibly expect me to concentrate on what he had to say while he was touching me. But the sensation was so pleasurable I forced myself to concentrate on his words.
"The official cause of Theodore Elway's death was listed as acute myocardial infarction."
"Heart attack. Right?"
He nodded. "But there were questions. He was known to carry nitro tablets at all times. The report indicated his daughter was suspicious that there were three bottles in his room and two in his car—all empty. The coroner found traces of Viagra in his system."
I stared at him. "That's why Rosalyn believed Cecile killed him. I don't believe men with bad tickers are supposed to fool with those little blue pills. Do you?"
He just looked at me then smiled. "I don't know. I haven't ever had to take one."
I looked away from the twinkle in his eyes. "Did your…friend…say whether or not it ever went any further than just the suspicion Cecile might have had something to do with her husband's death?"
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