The Devil Close Behind

by Janet Dawson

  “You must be a regular,” I said, glancing up from the menu.

  Antoine grinned. “Of course. Best fried chicken in town—except for my mother’s fried chicken.”

  “I know I’m going to have the chicken. I mean, why come to Willie Mae’s for anything else? It’s just a matter of which side dishes.”

  “I’m partial to fried okra,” Antoine said. “I really like the mac-and-cheese, too. Hey, everything’s good here.”

  When the server brought Antoine’s tea, we both ordered fried chicken. It came with three pieces of the delectable chicken and with one side per order, but we got several more—okra and mac-and-cheese, of course, along with green beans and that New Orleans staple, red beans and rice. We also got a green salad, just because.

  “So you left the other firm and opened your own shop,” I said.

  Antoine nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I wanted to do all along. I learned a lot working for the criminal investigation command when I was in the Army, and working for the big investigative firm here in town got me the PI’s license. But I always wanted to be my own boss. I bought a little house on Villere Street a few years ago and remodeled it myself. I live in the back and my office is in the front. Low overhead.”

  “I know about overhead.” I’d recently left the office I’d had for several years because the rent had gone up so much. Now I had office space in another building owned by a friend’s law firm. Personally, I didn’t care for the idea of having my office and my home in the same place, but to each his own. Or chacun à son goût, since we were in New Orleans.

  The server returned, delivering our fried chicken and side dishes. For a moment there was no conversation as we communed with our food. It was that good. Then I set down the remains of my first piece of chicken and wiped my greasy hands on a napkin as I told Antoine the initial reason for our trip. “Birding and history. I’m here with my dad, though he’s going home today. He’s retired now, but he was a history professor at Cal State. Since he stopped teaching, he’s gotten into birding.”

  “I like history. Took several classes when I went to the University of New Orleans, before I joined the Army.” Antoine speared okra with his fork. “If you’re into history, you’re in the right place. History we’ve got. Have you done one of the plantation tours? Or gone out to Chalmette?”

  “We went to the Whitney Plantation earlier in the week. And Chalmette, yesterday. We took that paddlewheeler, the Creole Queen, from the foot of Canal Street. And Dad connected with a local birder. She took us to City Park and Bayou Sauvage.”

  “You’ve covered a lot of territory.” Antoine scooped up another serving of mac-and-cheese. “My grandma was interested in birds. She had a backyard feeder, was always pointing out the different kinds. I hope you saw some good ones. Now, what’s the story with this case that’s cropped up?”

  “I got a call last night from my friend Davina, who lives in the Bay Area. She was born and raised here. She’s concerned about her sister, a woman named Laurette Mason who’s had a rocky time the past few years. Both her husband and daughter died recently.” I helped myself to red beans and rice and gave Antoine more details. “Sometime last fall, Laurette started dating a musician named Slade. Her parents, George and Sabine Tedesco, don’t like him. Slade moved in with Laurette in February. This weekend, the Tedescos discovered that Laurette quit her job at Entergy, gave up her apartment and car and left with Slade. I don’t know if she left town or just moved somewhere else here in New Orleans. Her parents are worried. I went to see them this morning.” I gave him an overview of my conversation with the Tedescos. “There could be all sorts of reasons Laurette didn’t tell her folks what she was up to,” I added. “She’d called her mother on being overprotective, from the sound of it.”

  “Yeah, they do sound overprotective. I mean, this lady’s old enough to know her own mind, right? You having second thoughts?” Antoine asked. “About agreeing to do this?”

  “Maybe. However, I said I’d do it, so I’m gonna do it.”

  “Okay.” Antoine picked up another piece of chicken. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “I’m wondering about Laurette’s car. It’s a green Honda and her dad gave me the license plate number.”

  “Easy as pie,” he said. “I’ve got a connection at the Office of Motor Vehicles. I’ll see what I can find out about that car. I’m betting she sold it.”

  “That’s my best guess. And if that’s the case, there’s a transfer of title somewhere in the public records.”

  “This guy Slade’s a musician? I can definitely help you on that. My sister Daisy is a singer. She’s got her own band and she knows a lot of people in town. I’ll ask her if she’s ever heard of this guy. In fact—” He wiped his hands on a napkin and pulled out his phone, moving his fingers over the screen. Then he looked up. “Daisy’s band has a gig tonight at the Spotted Cat on Frenchmen Street. How about we go over there and ask her?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “I know where the Spotted Cat is. Dad and I were there a few nights ago.” I paused for another sip of iced tea. “Once we’re done with lunch, I suggest going over to the apartment where Laurette and Slade lived. It’s in Mid-City.”

  Antoine nodded. “I’ll go with you to the apartment. Then I have another appointment this afternoon, across the river in Algiers. Daisy’s first set is at six o’clock. I’ll pick you up at your hotel around five-thirty and we can head on over to the Spotted Cat. You said your dad’s going home later today. How long are you going to stay in town? And where?”

  “I can stay a few more days, but I have to be back in Oakland by Tuesday, for some meetings on Wednesday. As for where I’m staying, I extended my reservation a few days.” I gave him the name and address of the hotel.

  “I know where it is.” Antoine finished his last piece of chicken. “Now, they do have some fine bread pudding here.”

  I looked at the chicken bones on my plate and shook my head. “I couldn’t eat another bite. As it is, we’re going to have to get some boxes for the rest of these side dishes. You want to take them home?”

  “I absolutely do,” Antoine said. “And I’m gonna have some bread pudding.”

  Chapter Five

  The apartment Laurette and Slade had vacated was on Palmyra Street, a mile or so from her parents’ house. The two-story red brick building looked old, but well-kept. A sign in front advertised an apartment for rent. I parked the rental car at the curb, behind Antoine’s silver Toyota RAV4. We headed for the front of the building. There were eight units, four on each floor, each door painted bright yellow and opening onto an exterior walkway. A parking lot with numbered spaces ran from the street to the alley. A smaller, one-story building stood separate from the apartments at the back of the lot. The door had been propped open and I saw a woman with a laundry basket, putting clothing into a front-load washing machine.

  Antoine and I walked to the bank of mailboxes at the front, near the black metal stairs that led up to the second floor. The mailbox for apartment A had a sign reading manager. I rang the bell for that apartment. There was no answer, but I saw a smaller, hand-printed sign on the door, reading if no answer, please call the number below. I pulled out my phone, called the number, and heard it ring, both on my phone and somewhere toward the rear of the building.

  A man answered, “This is Bert.”

  “I’m at your front door,” I said. “I’d like to talk with you about a tenant.”

  “Sure thing. Come down to apartment D, first floor at the back.” A man came out of a door at the rear of the building, holding his phone to his ear. He waved.

  We headed back to where the man stood. He looked to be in his fifties, with receding brown hair above a flushed face. He wore an orange T-shirt over faded jeans, both stained with paint. “How can I help you folks?”

  We introduced ourselves. “We’d like to ask some questions about Laurette Mason.”

  “She moved out. I was sorry to see her go. She was a good ten
ant, most of the time.” He gestured at the open door. “This was her apartment. I’m doing some repairs, so I can get it rented again.”

  “I know she left. We’re friends of the family. They’re worried about her.”

  The manager was nodding as I spoke. “Yeah, I figured. Her folks came over on Sunday. They hadn’t seen her or heard from her and she wasn’t answering her cell phone. Like I told them, on Friday Laurette and that guy that was living with her packed up a bunch of stuff into a big SUV and took off.”

  “We’re looking for information,” Antoine said. “Did Laurette or the guy say where they were going?”

  “Nope.” Bert pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped the sweat that glistened on his skin. “Come on in.”

  We followed him into the apartment, which had a standard layout, the beige carpet worn and stained in places. The paint on the walls was cream-colored, in need of touch-ups here and there. A wheeled cart stood in front of the living room window, holding a can of paint, a plastic bin with supplies, and a toolbox. A stepladder was open in the corner. Bert reached into the bin and pulled out a bottle of water, unscrewing the top. He took a drink.

  “You said she was a good tenant, most of the time. What did you mean?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t her. I guess I should have said that different. She was always a good tenant. It was that guy.” Bert shook his head, a sour twist to his mouth. “He called himself Slade. Things went downhill after he moved in, toward the end of February, I guess it was. He was a musician. Played the electric guitar at all hours. I had complaints from the other tenants about noise, especially from the lady that lives next door and the man upstairs. And there was the parking. Slade had run-ins with other tenants about parking in their spaces. All the parking slots are assigned, one space per unit. And I was getting grief from the other tenants when they couldn’t park in their spaces because Slade’s Ford was taking up a slot.”

  “What was he driving?” I asked.

  “A beat-up hatchback, gray with lots of rust spots. Anyway, he was always parking that piece of junk in the lot instead of on the street. I was glad to see him leave. But Laurette? I hope she knows what she’s doing, going off with that guy. With the guitar and the parking, he was two for two on my bad-tenant scale.”

  I steered Bert back to the vehicles. “But that’s not the car Laurette and Slade were loading up on Friday.”

  Bert shook his head. “Nope. They wouldn’t have been able to get all their stuff in his junker, or her little Honda Civic. The car they loaded up was one of those SUVs, looked like a box on wheels. Red, it was.”

  “What make and model?” Antoine asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. Let me see—” Bert scratched his chin, eyes narrowed as he attempted to recall what he’d seen. “Ford. I’m pretty sure it was a Ford.”

  “Any chance you remember the license number?” I asked.

  “Louisiana plates, for sure,” Bert said. “Don’t remember the letters or numbers. Wait. I do remember double fours. Two fours right next to each other. I’m sorry, that’s all I remember.”

  “Every little bit helps,” I said.

  While Bert talked, Antoine had been walking around the living room. Now he stopped and motioned to me. “Jeri, look at this.”

  I joined him and peered at the spot he indicated, on the back wall of the living room. Someone had slammed a fist into the wall, hard enough to dent the Sheetrock and crack the paint. “This looks like—”

  “Looks like what it is,” Bert finished. “Somebody punched the wall and I’m here to tell you it wasn’t Laurette.”

  Antoine and I traded looks. The fist-sized hole in the living room wall bothered me. It looked larger than a woman’s hand. It spoke to violence, a temper. That, coupled with the Tedescos’ description of Slade as the wrong guy, was troubling.

  Bert was still talking. “I thought Laurette had more sense than to take up with a guy like him. But there’s no accounting for taste.”

  “I know Laurette’s family doesn’t like him. What else can you tell me about Laurette and Slade?”

  Bert swallowed more water. “I was real surprised that Laurette was leaving. It was sudden, you know. She’d lived here about three years. Her and her little girl. You knew she had a little girl that died in a car accident?” I nodded, and he went on. “It was really sad. She took it hard. Who wouldn’t?” Bert took another drink of water. “It seemed like she was dealing with it. She went back to work. Things going along just like normal. Then she took up with Slade, he moved in and things went to hell in a handbasket. She didn’t give me hardly any notice. Told me a couple of days before that she was moving out. I told her I couldn’t return the security deposit because of that and she said not to worry about it.”

  “What did she do with her furniture?” Antoine asked. “I’m assuming you rent these places unfurnished.”

  “Yeah, we do. She sold a bunch of her furniture and stored a lot of stuff,” Bert said. “That’s what her neighbor said. Mrs. Santini, lives right there in apartment C. She told me Friday morning a truck from a secondhand furniture place pulled up and two guys loaded up the furniture and took off.”

  “I’d like to talk with Mrs. Santini,” I said.

  “She’s not here right now. I saw her leave an hour ago. She had her cart with her, so I guess she went to make groceries,” he added, using the local term for grocery shopping.

  I looked around the stripped-bare living room. Why would Laurette suddenly sell her belongings, store the rest and leave town with Slade? It was possible that, after the deaths of her husband and daughter, she was ready for a change. Maybe New Orleans held too many memories. Maybe Slade had promised her a new life in a new town.

  Bert was anxious to get back to work and didn’t have much else to tell us. He followed us to the door as we left the apartment, then stopped and pointed toward the front of the building. “There’s Mrs. Santini now. She can probably tell you more about Laurette, seeing as they were next-door neighbors.” He waved. “Hey, Norma.”

  The woman who was coming our way appeared to be in her seventies, a bit shorter than I was, with a head of curly gray hair. She wore a pair of faded jeans and a red-and-white checked shirt, her feet laced into comfortable-looking sneakers. She was pulling a wheeled shopping cart made of bright blue fabric. Bert made the introductions.

  “Just let me get my groceries put away,” Norma Santini said. “Then I’ll be happy to talk with you.”

  She unlocked her front door as Bert went back to his repairs. Antoine pulled Mrs. Santini’s cart into her unit, which had the same sort of layout as Laurette’s apartment. In the kitchen, she unloaded the cart, putting her perishables in the refrigerator. She left the rest of her purchases sitting on the counter.

  “Can I get y’all something to drink?” she asked.

  “Nothing for me, ma’am,” Antoine said.

  I shook my head as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Santini. I’m fine.”

  “Call me Norma,” she said in a tart voice. “Being called ma’am or missus makes me feel twenty years older than I am. Go ahead, have a seat.” She took a bottle of Abita root beer from the refrigerator and popped off the cap, taking a drink before she joined us in the living room. “Now, what is it y’all want to know?”

  “We’re private investigators,” I said. “I’m from Oakland, California, and Antoine is local. Laurette’s sister is a friend of mine. She knew I was here on vacation and she asked me to help. Laurette’s family is worried. They can’t get hold of her and they were upset to find out she’d left her apartment.”

  “Well, I guess she wanted a change,” Norma said. “That young man who moved in, well, he was real different from her husband, from what she said. I guess that was part of the attraction. I know Bert didn’t like him. That business about the loud music and the parking spaces. But you can’t take Bert’s word on everything.” She smiled. “Bert’s a grouchy old guy. He doesn’t like anybody.” She paused for anothe
r sip of root beer. “Laurette is a nice young woman. I remember when she moved in, about three years ago, with her little girl, Hannah. Such a sweet little girl.” Sadness shadowed Norma’s face. “Laurette was devastated when Hannah was killed in the car wreck. She was just a lost soul after that baby died. I don’t know how she survived. First her husband and then the baby. It was just horrible. I know she needed somebody in her life. If Slade is the one, well, I think her parents should let things run their course.”

  There was something to be said for that viewpoint, I thought. Though it didn’t jibe with what looked like a fist slammed against the wall hard enough to damage it. “Did they seem comfortable together?”

  “Oh, yes,” Norma said. “Laurette likes to cook and she’d fix dinner and sometimes they’d invite me over. Laughing, drinking wine, having a good time. I remember once Laurette was trying to make divinity candy and it wouldn’t set. So she made a cake and used the divinity to frost it.” She chuckled. “She gave me a piece and it was really good.”

  “Anything else you can tell us?” Antoine asked.

  Norma thought about it for a moment as she took another swallow of root beer. “Well, there was this other woman. I wonder if it was an old girlfriend of Slade’s that tracked him down here. It was a couple of weeks ago. This woman showed up and she got in Slade’s face. It was quite a confrontation.”

  Now that sounded interesting. “What did she look like?”

  “Tall, blond and skinny,” Norma said. “She had really short hair, like a boy’s. Except these days, boys have long hair. Anyway, I saw the whole thing because I was walking home from the library branch over on Canal Street. It was the middle of the afternoon. Laurette wasn’t home from work yet. Slade had parked that old hatchback in Laurette’s parking spot. This woman was waiting for him on the sidewalk. As soon as he got out of his car, she practically jumped out at him, shouting at him. I wasn’t close enough to hear what she was saying, but there was a lot of hostility between them.”