“I called a cab and we took it to the Napoleon House, like I said. After our drinks, we walked around Jackson Square and I called another cab to bring us back here. I’m guessing we got back here around 1:00 to 1:30 a.m.”
“So, there are two cab drivers out there who saw you with him last night,” I said.
She burst into tears. Through tears and sniffles, she rendered the rest of the evening for me. They’d returned and had a nightcap in the salon. Julia went to his room, to make sure he had enough towels. Who was she kidding? Anyway, one thing led to another and after a night of whoopee she woke up with a killer headache.
“I realized the bed was broken and figured we’d had a real fun night of it. I felt so bad when I woke up, way worse than I should have felt for only having a couple of drinks. I slipped out the bed so I wouldn’t wake him and left his room. I went to shower to help wake myself up. I was in the shower a while and still felt like I couldn’t wake up. After my shower I went downstairs to make him breakfast and prep food for the other guests arriving later that day. When I brought the tray up to his room…I found him…like that. I didn’t know, I didn’t see him like that when I sneaked out of his room earlier. It was still dark.”
She told me she’d dropped the tray of food when she saw all the blood. It was still there, all over the floor, just inside the door.
“That must have been a wild night if you two broke the bed,” I said.
“Yeah, I guess so, even though I don’t remember much after we got into this room,” Julia said.
“So, what did y’all talk about last night? Did he have friends here or was he supposed to meet someone else here, since he came in a day early?” I asked her.
“I don’t know,” she blubbered.
“Anything else? Can you remember anything else about him?”
“He wore a purple stone, I think was an amethyst, on a black leather cord like a necklace. I didn’t see it on him when I found him this morning and I know he had it on last night when we went out. He said he never took it off.”
“Did he get any messages? Check and see if anyone called looking for him.”
We went into the hallway where the answering machine sat on a leggy, gold leafed antique reception desk. It was blinking and indicated there were new messages. We hit play and the first one was a woman’s voice saying she knew Gervais St. Germain was checking in. She didn’t leave a name but left her number and said, “tell him to call me.” The second caller was a hang up and left no message, but the caller did breathe heavily into the phone for a few seconds.
“That’s the same weirdo who has called here several times and always just hangs up. It’s always from a blocked number,” Julia said after she replayed the messages and wrote down the phone number from the first on a scrap of paper on the desk.
I looked at my watch.
“Where are the police?” she asked. Almost thirty minutes had passed since I phoned.
“You should offer coffee and donuts for all cops in this precinct as part of your marketing. Then, they will keep an eye on the place,” I said. ”Or they might show up faster if you call in for help.”
“Now you tell me.”
I love King Cakes and I don’t need to be stressed to eat a whole one by myself, although I would have used that as an excuse this morning. My stomach was doing flips while we waited and I tried to get more information out of Julia. I didn’t relish seeing whoever showed up from the New Orleans Police Department. I was bound to know them since my ex boyfriend was a cop. I couldn’t stop craving king cake.
King Cakes are braided cinnamon rolls shaped into hollow circles covered in purple, green and gold sugared icing, the colors of Mardi Gras. There is a plastic doll hidden inside and the person who gets the piece with the doll has certain obligations while enjoying the reign as king or queen for the duration of the party. These cakes can only be found in New Orleans during the weeks of Mardi Gras season, from the Catholic Feast of the Epiphany through Fat Tuesday or until Ash Wednesday starts. They are the energy food that fuels parade goers. The sugar alone gives you enough energy to maintain the grueling pace needed for weeks dedicated to parading, partying and drinking. It is my official food of Carnival. I could have used a piece right now to help me cope with this mess with Julia. Available everywhere during Mardi Gras, one or two bakeries ship them year round, so I can special order one any time my stress-o-meter screams for some of that sugary saboteur to my normally healthy diet. I was thinking about calling to order one.
Two cups of coffee later, another splash of Jameson for Julia, and my craving for King Cake totally unsatisfied, we still waited. It had been over an hour since I called the police.
While we waited, Julia and I discussed more of what had happened and how much she didn’t know about the man who was now dead in her guest room. I told her that when the police arrived she should tell the truth, as much as she could remember, and if she didn’t know something, say she didn’t know it. If, for any reason, they decided to take her in for questioning, I told her to tell them she wanted a lawyer and not to say another thing. I knew her calling me before she called the police was going to be a problem, but I didn’t think it would be a big problem until an unmarked police car, in typical fashion—long after the immediate crises was over—screamed up to the front of the building, siren wailing, lights flashing and brakes screeching as it slammed to a stop. A Ford Crown Vic, the police department’s unmarked car of choice arrived, flashed the blue dashboard light and pinched off a single bloop on the siren by way of announcing themselves. The tinted windows didn’t allow me to see who was inside. No one got out immediately in spite of their arrival at breakneck speed. When the driver and passenger doors finally opened, a male and female officer got out of the car. I knew this was not going to go well. Julia’s chances would have been fine had the first cop on the scene not been my childhood sweetheart and ex-boyfriend, Dante Deedler.
Dante and his new partner.
During the initial aftermath of our breakup, I thought—or was led to believe—that Dante was gay, and that was why our relationship was going nowhere. Local gossip from the old neighborhood where we grew up next door to each other was happy to update me on this recent development…the new partner was also his new girlfriend.
Chapter Two
Julia and I walked out to the front porch to meet the police. Dante strode up the steps and introduced himself as Detective Deedler, as if we didn’t know him. His previous partner, Joe, had been arrested and was awaiting trial for his involvement in the oil lease scam I’d stumbled into after I kissed the guy I was now dating in a Mardi Gras parade a couple of months ago. Dante and I had not spoken since.
Dante’s partner stuck her arm straight out, like a karate punch, holding her shield in my face. I had to lean my head back to read it. It said Z. Hanky. Z stood for Zide, or so the twenty-four-hour satellite operated, neighborhood rumor mill detected and texted me within seconds of obtaining the info. In the past, I would have had to wait for a call over a secure line or a face-to-face meeting at a predetermined locale, like my favorite bar on St. Charles Avenue. The busybody hotline also passed along the useless but interesting tidbit that Dante’s police unit had given her a nickname. My face was fighting the urge to burst out laughing at the thought of the other cops calling her Hanky Panky. Dante appeared to be in an ill humor.
“What happened?” he asked, opening his notebook without looking at either of us.
I looked at Julia. She was standing there as if in a trance.
“Julia?” Dante asked not looking up from the notebook. His partner put one hand on her gun, the other on her nightstick and stared at me. I guess I didn’t need to introduce myself.
Julia turned around, walked inside and started up the steps. I waited for Dante and Officer Friendly to follow. Dante looked up and gave me an after-you gesture. Detective Hanky followed me with Dante bringing up the rear. We all trudged up the stairs to the second floor guest room. I thought the dead
guy looked more ghostlike now. I’m sure rigor was setting in.
This was the first time I had seen Dante in a couple of months. During Mardi Gras a couple of months ago I was told by the bartender of a popular gay club in the French Quarter that he saw Dante in there often, in plain clothes. I thought I had it on good authority that Dante was gay. Turns out, Dante was undercover so I had bad information on him being homosexual. The good information someone shared was that he was pretty ticked off at me for thinking this. Afterwards, Dante and I mutually agreed it would be best if we dated other people. By mutually agreed, I mean, I decided to date other people and Dante ignored me and just went about his business as usual. It didn’t help that we’d both lived with our parents right next door to each other since birth, and I was going to be under the magnifying glass every time I had a date. Someone was always ready to report to one of us about the goings on of the other. So, I moved out of the family home and into an apartment with Suzanne, another childhood friend from the neighborhood. Suzanne did know when to keep her mouth shut and stayed clear of the gossip rodeo. Over the last couple of months, life had become a roller coaster of adjustments. Seeing Dante for the first time since the move and breakup was harder than I thought it would be, especially seeing him with his new girlfriend at a murder scene.
Julia took a small step over the threshold into the room and immediately moved along the wall plastering herself against it. She stood staring at the body.
Dante’s partner leaned over the body to check for a pulse. She looked back at him and shook her head. That’s when I noticed her extra wide backside. From the rear she looked as wide as she was tall and I’m not counting the holster with all their police stuff—gun, flashlight, handcuffs, radio—just her big butt filling out a pair of ill-fitting polyester uniform pants. I was feeling tall and thin, and stood up a little straighter.
“Julia, how do you know the victim?” Dante asked her, walking around the room making notes of the havoc, the food on the floor, the disarranged furniture, the man’s clothes and the lady things.
“I. He. He’s a guest,” she mumbled.
“Did you get a name and address when he checked in?”
“His name is Gervais St. Germain and he said he’s from here but travels a lot with the band he plays with, The Levee Men. He doesn’t keep an apartment here anymore,” she answered.
Oh good, I had hoped she would leave off the ‘Guitarzan’ part.
“Do you know if he has any aliases, nicknames, something else he could have been known by?” Dante asked.
Here goes.
“He told me the band guys called him Guitarzan.”
“So are you the gymnast or was Guitarzan here swinging from the chandelier?” asked Detective Hanky, nodding toward the ceiling.
No wonder Dante liked her. She was a riot.
“When did you last see him?” Dante looked directly at Julia when he asked.
“Maybe 5:00 or 5:15 this morning when I woke up and went down to get us some juice and rolls,” Julia said. This got a raised eyebrow from the partner-girlfriend wearing, men’s polyester uniform pants.
“What is your relationship with this man?” Dante was doing the interrogation while big butt was looking through the dead guy’s suitcase for a wallet or an I.D.
“I don’t have a relationship with him. He, he just checked in last night.”
“How is it you last saw him at 5:15 this morning?” he asked, looking right at the chandelier with the lace thong hanging from it.
“How do you think?” I answered, trying to save her some embarrassment.
“I need Julia to answer the questions, unless of course,” he said, pausing and giving me a steely look, “you were here, too.”
I gave him one of the stares I’d inherited from my mother and he turned his attentions back to Julia.
“I slept in here with him,” Julia stated as if it took her last breath. She looked unstable on her feet.
“Who else is registered here as a guest? We’ll need a list of their names along with all your staff, and anyone that comes and goes.” Dante cast a sideways look in my direction.
“The registered guests are arriving later today,” Julia said.
“Where are they?” asked Hanky.
“What part of ‘arriving later today’ makes you think we know where they are now?” I was immediately sorry I’d mouthed off and air fingered the quotes.
Dante looked like he was going to explode, so he busied himself walking around the room taking notes. He stopped and looked at the bloody phone and the bloody handprints on the body. He looked at Julia and asked, “Are these yours?”
She nodded.
“Julia Richard you need to come with us for questioning,” Hanky said, taking Julia by the arm. Julia pushed her hands off her. Hanky immediately cuffed her and started to escort Julia out of the room.
“Is she under arrest?” I asked. Hanky ignored me and Dante was calling in a homicide over the police radio, asking forensics to come to the address to meet Officer Hanky. “I think Julia should consult with an attorney before she answers any questions.” To Julia, I added, “I’ll call Stan and see if he can meet you.” Stan was an old mutual friend and attorney. Dante and I had grown up with him.
I followed behind Hanky with Julia and in front of Dante as we walked down the magnificent stairway Julia had spent a fortune to renovate. The width of the grand old Victorian staircase allowed for Hanky to walk side by side with Julia. We stopped at the front leaded glass doors under the fan window.
“You need to come with us, too,” Dante said without looking at me.
“Really, Dante? Are we under arrest? What am I under arrest for?” I really didn’t want to be left alone with Detective Wide Side, so being arrested had some appeal.
Hanky never let go of Julia the entire way down the brick entry steps as they left the guest house. “We’ll let you know after you answer a few questions.” Dante put his hand on Julia’s head and guided her into the back seat of the police car.
“Dante, please, can you drive me and my car to the station?” I was right in his face when he stood up closing the door to the squad car. I sounded pitiful whining the question.
He paused and told Detective Hanky to drive the squad car with Julia while he waited for forensics. Then he said he would drive my car and me to the precinct. I thought I saw Hanky Panky going for her gun to shoot me on the spot, but Dante stepped between us and spun me around. He pushed me ahead of him back up the steps into the bed and breakfast.
Chapter Three
Dante followed me back inside the Canal Street Guest House and told me not to touch anything. The strong smell of the coffee I’d brewed still hung in the air. It was a strong coffee and chicory blend like Dante’s mother always brewed early in the morning for her husband and boys before they left for work or school. She would set it up the night before and put it on a timer so it would be ready for them when they got up. Dante was always the first one up. The aroma would drift from her kitchen across the narrow alley between our houses right into my bedroom. It was better than an alarm clock. I closed my eyes thinking of those mornings. Dante would pour us each a steaming cup and come over to sit with me on my front porch. He did this every morning before work and before anyone else was stirring in either house. We would talk about our plans for the day and plan to meet someplace after work. We would meet at either The Columns Hotel to sit out on the veranda or at The Napoleon House, my personal favorite in the French Quarter. We would have a drink and compare what really happened during the day as compared to what we thought would happen over coffee. Mornings were the only time we ever spent truly alone and the smell of the coffee reminded me of how secure I felt talking and sharing my day with him before anyone else was up. I had thought one day after we were married we would sit on our own porch having coffee discussing the three boys I dreamed of having, their little league schedules, having king cake parties and growing old together. We would wake up early and plan who
would take the boys to school and who would pick them up, who would get them to their games or dancing school if I had a girl. Dante and I would cook dinner together and we would all eat every day at the same time before he would go off to help our children with their homework. I would press their uniforms and get their lunches ready for the next day. I would put a little surprise in them like a candy or note encouraging them if there was a test or tryouts after school that day. I would make Dante’s lunch and tuck a love note in with his sandwich. I would tell my husband how happy I was with him and put a lipstick kiss on it. I would add, ‘Be careful and come home to me tonight’ on every note. That was what I thought my life would be like.
I wondered what had happened to the happy little kids who grew up next door to each other, played every day at recess and after school. We shared childhood confidences, dreams and secrets. He was my first love, my first kiss, the first boy I danced with and my only boyfriend for most of my life. He was my first love but I guess I was only his childhood friend. Like a good southern, Irish Catholic girl I waited for Dante to bring up our future and marriage. I waited and waited. I guess we didn’t share the expectation both families had for us to get married, live on the same block and have a boatload of grandkids for them.
When he left for the military, I waited for him. He didn’t ask me to wait, he just kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ll miss you. I’ll be back” when I stood with him at the railway station. He probably thought I’d finally move on without him here. I thought he enlisted to get away from me or he would rather be shot at than marry me. He wrote to me but never said he loved me or he missed me. He said he missed home.
He missed home, not me.
I decided to wait for him thinking when he came back we would move on with our lives, together or apart, but, at least I would have an answer. I stayed and lived at home with my parents who happened to be right next door to Dante’s parents and four brothers. I had both families keeping an eye on me. We never discussed our feelings for one another, we just heard what our parents said we felt for each other, how we were expected to live our lives together. No one asked us, and we didn’t ask each other. He must have hated me for the choreographed life our parents mapped out. I had to wait for him. I had to be right there, in his face when he came back, smothering him along with our parents. Then, to top it all off, when I did kiss someone at a parade, it was right in front of him.
Dead and Breakfast (The New Orleans Go Cup Chronicles Book 2) Page 2
