by Janet Dawson
“Her name’s Brenda.”
I nodded, a couple of puzzle pieces falling into place.
“We used to go out together, last year,” Troy continued. “Stayed friends. And she met Slade when he and I were playing together at a club down on Bourbon Street. She knew Slade had been gigging with us, so she called me a couple of days before to make sure he’d be here that night. Said she was going to fix him up with this lady named Laurette.”
“Was Slade in on this fix-up?” Antoine asked, glancing at me. “Did he know Brenda was going to introduce him to Laurette?”
“Don’t know,” Troy said. “Could be, since Brenda knows him. I guess it worked out. Slade and Laurette hit it off and they started dating. Then sometime after Mardi Gras, Slade told me he was giving up his apartment and moving in with Laurette. She had a nice place in Mid-City. It was bigger. The place where Slade was living in Treme was really small and kinda funky.” He stopped talking long enough to take a swallow of his rum and Coke.
“Is there anything else you can tell us about Slade?” I asked. “Where is he from?”
“That I don’t know,” the guitarist said. “He’s not from NOLA, though. From somewhere out of town.”
I wondered if Slade, with Laurette in tow, was headed back to wherever he came from. “Did he have an accent? Was he a southerner, or from back east?” I’d already asked Laurette’s parents that question, but I wanted to hear what Troy had to say.
He was shaking his head. “No accent that I can remember. I mean, if it was a deep south drawl or one of those easterners from ‘Noo Yawk,’ I would have noticed. I’m thinking he was from somewhere out west. I didn’t see anything in his apartment that struck me as being souvenirs from home, either. Sorry, that’s all I can remember.” He downed the rest of his drink, then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Good thing Slade moved out of that place in Treme when he did. There was a fire. That apartment got totally trashed.”
That could be a reason for Slade to change his living arrangements. But Troy had just said the fire happened after Slade moved in with Laurette. “Any idea how it started?”
“Not really.” The look on Troy’s face told me he didn’t think the fire had anything to do with Slade. “I guess it was an accident, probably some electrical problem. Wouldn’t surprise me. It was an old building and the wiring in that place was kinda funky. I noticed that when I was crashing at Slade’s place. Plug in too many things and the fuse would go. That’s rough when you’re trying to practice with an electric guitar, I can tell you.”
“Where was the apartment?” Antoine asked. “What address?”
“Marais Street, off Esplanade.” Troy rattled off the street address.
Antoine looked thoughtful. “Who owns the building? Was it Doucette Properties?”
Troy shrugged. “I don’t know. The apartment was in Slade’s name. Like I said, I only crashed there a couple of weeks. I gave him some cash to cover it. Don’t know who the landlord was.” Another member of the band gave Troy a tap on the shoulder. “I gotta go.” Troy headed back to the stage and picked up his guitar.
“Something about the name Brenda?” Antoine asked. “You got a look on your face when Troy mentioned the name.”
“And here I thought I had such a good poker face,” I said.
“It is good. Only another private eye would have picked up on it. So what’s the story with Brenda?”
“That’s one of the names on the list Laurette’s mother gave me. If it’s the same woman, and I’m guessing it was, since Troy said Brenda was at the club with some people she worked with. Laurette worked at Entergy with someone named Brenda Kohl.”
“Did you talk with her today?”
I shook my head. “She never called me back. I’ll track her down tomorrow, if I have to go to Entergy headquarters to do it. So Brenda introduced them. I’d like more details on how she knows Slade and why she decided to introduce him to Laurette. And you’re interested in that fire.”
“I sure am. Doucette Properties is Patrice Doucette, and I know her. We grew up together in the Treme. Pat lives on Marais Street, which is just around the way from where I live on Villere. She owns a bunch of apartment buildings all over that neighborhood. Plus I remember that fire. It was in March, so it was definitely after Slade moved in with Laurette. The fire was just a couple of blocks from my house. I heard the engines and went outside. It was late at night, but I could see the smoke and the flames. I heard later it was one of Pat’s places. But I didn’t hear anything about how it started. Like the guitar player said, those are old buildings. Could have been an accident.”
“Or not. We need to check it out.”
He nodded. “Agreed. I know a guy at the fire department. I’ll see what I can find out. Go see Pat tomorrow. I’ll text you her address. I’d go with you, but I’ve got a meeting with a client tomorrow morning.”
We left Café Negril and headed back to the French Quarter to a restaurant Antoine wanted to try. After dinner, he dropped me at my hotel. I headed upstairs, where I called Dan before going to bed.
Chapter Eight
The following morning, I had breakfast at the buffet in the hotel courtyard, then headed for the business center off the lobby. I checked my office email and responded to messages. My plan was to visit Doucette Properties this morning, to get some information on the apartment that Slade had rented before he moved in with Laurette. At some point I needed to update Davina and the Tedescos on the progress of the investigation, but it was early yet. I didn’t have much information for them. They had agreed to pay for Antoine’s time, though. I was doing this as a favor to Davina, though she’d promised to kick in some funds when I got back to the Bay Area.
As for talking with Laurette’s friends, I’d met with Grace and Mary yesterday. But Brenda Kohl, Laurette’s coworker at Entergy, had never returned my call. Time for a reminder. I looked at my phone screen and found the list of calls I’d made the day before, calling Brenda’s work and home numbers. The calls went straight to voice mail, so I left messages. Then I called her cell number. These days, with caller ID, it was easy to ignore a ringing phone if one didn’t recognize the number. It was possible that was how Brenda was playing it. After several rings I was sure the call would bounce over to voice mail. Then I heard a voice say, “Hi, this is Brenda.”
“Jeri Howard. I called you yesterday.” I launched into my explanation for why I wanted to talk with her, the same message I’d left on her voice mail earlier. When I was finished, she didn’t say anything, and I wondered if she’d ended the call.
Then she said, “Yeah, I got your message yesterday. A private eye, huh? I don’t know how I can help you. I have a few minutes now, so ask your questions.”
“I’d rather talk with you in person.” I always prefer a face-to-face meeting. It lets me observe a person’s body language, facial expressions and mannerisms, which are sometimes more telling than a person’s words. “I’m in the French Quarter right now. I can come to where you are, if you can take a break at some point during the day. Are you at work?”
I heard a sigh on the other end. Her reluctance to talk with me was clear. But maybe she realized that I wasn’t planning on taking no for an answer.
“I’m not at work,” she said. “I took the day off. Look, I’m out running errands and then I’ve got an appointment. I guess I could meet you at ten. There’s a coffeehouse on North Carrollton, the Bean Gallery. Look for the green awning over the front door.”
“How will I recognize you?”
“I’m wearing khakis and a tropical print shirt.”
I was about to tell her how to recognize me, but she ended the call before I could get the words out of my mouth.
The clock on my phone said it was a quarter after nine. That gave me plenty of time to get there. I looked up the coffeehouse on the computer in front of me, with the map giving me an idea of how best to get there. I went upstairs to get my bag and the keys to the rental car. I left the French
Quarter and drove to my destination, parking on a side street.
It was a few minutes before ten when I entered the Bean Gallery. I looked around but didn’t see a woman in a tropical print shirt. She said she was running errands, so I’d give her the benefit of the doubt. I ordered a latte, then carried my cup to a small table on the wall opposite the counter, taking the chair that gave me a view of the door. Five minutes stretched into ten and still no Brenda Kohl. The benefit of the doubt was giving way to wondering if she was going to keep the appointment.
It was nearly twenty minutes past the hour when the door opened, and a woman walked in, wearing a shirt with a pattern of bright red and yellow flowers splashed across a pale green background. I’m five eight, and she was taller, perhaps five ten. As I looked at Brenda Kohl, I recalled Norma Santini’s description of the woman who’d had words with Slade on the sidewalk in front of Laurette’s building. Tall, blond and skinny, Norma had said, adding that the woman had short blond hair, like a boy’s haircut.
Was this the same woman? It could be. Descriptions were notoriously subjective. Brenda Kohl wasn’t what I’d call skinny. She had plenty of curves filling out her khaki cropped pants and her hair, while short, was longer than a boy’s, with curls clustered on her temples and the back of her neck.
I stood up and waved to her. As I introduced myself, I noticed the small red parrot tattooed on her forearm. It went with the enameled earrings dangling from her lobes that were also parrots. She appeared to be a few years younger than me, maybe thirty.
“Sorry I’m late,” Brenda Kohl said, a slight smile curving her lips. “Errands. Always takes longer than you think.”
“Can I get you a coffee?”
“Sure. A mocha would be great. I like chocolate and whipped cream with my coffee.”
I stepped up to the counter and ordered. When the drink was ready, I carried it to the table and sat down.
Brenda took a sip of her mocha. “Ah, just right. So what’s this all about?”
I told her the situation.
Brenda laughed, a throaty sound. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. “I know. They called me on Sunday evening when they didn’t find her at the apartment. I told them she’d quit her job. Y’know, the Tedescos really need to let go. They’ve had Laurette wrapped in cotton for years. She’s an adult, for God’s sake. Hiring a private eye to find her is really overkill.”
I took a sip of my latte. “I’m a friend of the family and I happen to be in town. And I’m certainly interested in your perspective. Did you know what Laurette was going to do?”
Brenda crossed one long leg over the other, jiggling her foot, which was encased in a sandal that showed off a bright red pedicure. “Laurette told me she was thinking about it. Throwing the dice to do something different, maybe heading out of town. I didn’t really think she’d do it, but now that she has, more power to her. It’s not like it was all that sudden. She gave the company two weeks’ notice that she was leaving the job.”
Which was more than she’d given her parents, who knew nothing about her plans, and Bert, the manager of the apartment building. That made me wonder about Laurette’s relationship with her family. Brenda thought the Tedescos were overreacting, and overprotective. That could very well be the case.
“She didn’t tell her parents she was leaving,” I said. “And she missed her brother’s birthday party.”
Brenda shrugged. “I can’t say that I blame her for taking off. She’s a grown-up, for God’s sake. She’s twenty-six years old, been married and had a kid. That means she gets to make her own choices.” She paused for another sip of her mocha and licked a bit of whipped cream from her lips. “Laurette is not as fragile as her parents seem to think. Yes, it was really hard on her, losing her husband, and then her little girl in that horrible car wreck. But life goes on. It has to. She feels smothered by her family, everyone tip-toeing around her and treating her like she’s made of glass. But she’s ready to move on. If she’s made the choice to do that with Slade, I’m all for it. I think the two of them living together is natural and wonderful and healthy. Laurette is getting on with her life.”
Maybe she was, I thought. But I wished she’d let her family know she was okay. “Do you have any idea where she’s gone?”
“Not a clue,” Brenda said. “But hey, it’s a big wide world and I hope she’s gone to look at some of it. That girl has lived in New Orleans her whole life, born and raised. I’ll bet she hasn’t been more than a couple of hundred miles from this town, ever.”
I noticed that she didn’t mention Pensacola, as Mary and Grace had, or Laurette’s visit to her sister in California.
Brenda continued, running her hands through her hair. “Me, I’m a transplant. I came here after Katrina, liked the place and found a job. I don’t know if I’ll stay. If I get bored, I’ll move on. I’m from the east, so I might check out California. Or Denver. Or New Mexico. I hear Santa Fe is wonderful. Maybe Laurette feels the same way I do. While you’re young, you’ve got to get out and see the world. It could be she’s on a road trip with Slade. Or she’s decided to relocate. Don’t worry, Laurette will get in touch with her family. She’s having an adventure somewhere. Good for her. If she’s on the road, maybe she’s having cell phone trouble.”
I sipped my coffee. “My impression is that the Tedescos don’t like Slade.”
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t think they’d like anyone who came between them and their daughter. Hell, I’ve met them a time or two and I don’t think they like me.”
“I see. Tell me about Slade. I know he’s a musician.”
“Good-looking.” Brenda grinned. “And a very talented musician.”
“Does he do anything else? I know a lot of musicians can’t support themselves just playing gigs. Does he have a day job?”
“Don’t know.” She shrugged. “Well, come to think of it, Laurette said something about Slade working in some warehouse. But he quit that job because they wanted him to work overtime and it was interfering with his gigs. At least that’s what she told me.”
It sounded like Brenda knew a lot about Slade. I thought again about the blond woman who’d supposedly confronted him outside the apartment building. “Did you know Slade? Before he met Laurette?”
She shook her head. “Know Slade? No. I’d seen him before, playing at clubs around town. But no, not to speak to.”
First lie, I thought. But who was telling it? Last night at Café Negril, Troy had told Antoine and me that Brenda had engineered the meeting between Laurette and Slade, because, in her words, they’d be a good match. But now Brenda was telling me she didn’t know him.
Was Brenda lying? Or was Troy? Deliberately? Or was one of them having a memory lapse?
My money was on Brenda. There was something in the way she tensed when I asked the question, the way her eyes skewed around the room before she answered me. Maybe it was the way she’d denied it, twice. I decided to give her a bit more rope and see what happened.
“How did Laurette meet Slade?”
Brenda relaxed. “We were out, listening to music.”
“Who’s we? You and Laurette? Or were you with a group of people?”
“With a group.” Brenda looked a bit annoyed at my interruption. “Some people from work. Just a casual get-together. Someone suggested that we have dinner and listen to music. So that’s what we did, headed over to Frenchmen Street after work and had a bite to eat. Then we went from place to place. Some people split off. A few of us ended up at Café Negril, listening to this band. Slade was playing guitar with them. He kept looking at Laurette during the set. I just knew he was going to ask for her phone number. When the band took a break, he came up and introduced himself. And he did ask for her number. She hesitated about giving it to him, and I said, Go on, what have you got to lose. You might go out on a date and have fun. And what could be the harm in that? So she did go out with him, and she had a blast.”
“Who were the other
people you were with?”
Now the woman on the other side of the table looked irritated. “I don’t see why you need to know their names. They’re just people from work.”
“I’m just trying to get a sense of how Laurette and Slade met.”
“They’ll tell you what I just told you.” Her lips compressed in a tight line. “There was a guy named Frank from accounting. I don’t even know his last name. And a woman named Abby.” Slowly, reluctantly, she gave me a few names. I jotted them in my notebook.
“This was last fall?”
“Yeah. Right before Thanksgiving. So Laurette started going out with Slade. And I was happy for her. It’s like she got a new lease on life. He’s good for her, he really is. They’re good together. Wait, I’ll show you what I mean. I took this video a month ago, when we were hanging out down in the Quarter.”
Brenda reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her fingers played over the screen as she searched through the photos and videos she’d taken. She scrolled down, found what she was looking for and started the video, handing the phone to me.
The image showed Laurette and Slade sitting side by side, his arm around her shoulders. I recognized the place, Café Envie, near the French Market. The video wasn’t very long, but long enough to show Slade with a smile on his narrow face as he turned and kissed Laurette on the cheek. She laughed, her face a contrast from the more reserved look I’d seen in the photo Davina had sent to me, the one taken on Christmas Day at the Tedescos’ house. In that one Slade had been taciturn, his face a mask. I could understand his wanting to be formal and on his best behavior, since the occasion was Christmas dinner with Laurette’s family. Slade had to know that the Tedescos didn’t approve of his relationship with Laurette. Maybe he didn’t want to give them any excuse to dislike him even more. This Slade was a lot like the one Laurette’s neighbor had described.
Still, I thought, Brenda’s pretty pictures didn’t tell the whole story of Laurette’s relationship with Slade, any more than Davina’s photo did. Or was I being cynical?
