EQMM, November 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The writer lived on Harmony Street in the Garden District, a roomy pink stucco with a facade of Spanish tile. Reno eased into the drive, chunks of white marble gnashing under the Jeep's tires. He parked and followed a cobblestone walkway around to the front porch. The yard lights were generous, and his eyes swept over the immaculate beds of African violets and gardenias, the lawn trimmed as taut as the green baize surface of a card table.

  He crossed a marble-flagged vestibule and pressed the smooth nacre button of the doorbell, hearing atonal chimes sound within. Again self-doubt assailed him—it seemed absurd, surrounded by all these accouterments of wealth and upbringing, to associate Uptown mansions with the dingy little walk-up on Bourbon.

  The door swung open, and Reno was caught flat-footed—instead of a maid in crisp linen, the woman smiling at him wore a white flounce-bottom skirt and matching jacket, open-toed pumps, and delicate gold butterfly earrings. She was a seraph-faced beauty in her early thirties, with liquid brown eyes and ginger hair coiled in a tight Psyche knot.

  "You must be Reno Sloan,” she greeted him. “But I was so hoping you'd be wearing a snappy fedora with a rakish brim. I've always wanted to say to a real private eye, ‘What's the grift, hawkshaw?’”

  Reno threw back his head and laughed. “Well, you just did, Miss Maitland."

  "Technically it's Mrs.,” she corrected him as she led Reno down an oak-floored hall. “My husband and I are separated. A mésalliance, as they say. By the way—I noticed your surprise when I answered the door myself. You see, according to my agent, I'm paperwork rich but pocket poor."

  She led him into a parlor off the hallway. Sheer curtains and brocade overdrapes covered the windows, and needlework tapestries done in fine Elizabethan tent stitch adorned the walls.

  "As a matter of fact, I spoke with Lydia Collins earlier today,” Reno remarked. “Not about you, of course."

  "Oh? You two spoke about the man you mentioned to me on the phone—Peter D'Antoni?"

  Reno nodded. She waved him into a comfortable leather chair and settled herself on a loveseat in the embrasure of a window.

  "I'm sorry he was murdered,” she said, “but I'm sure I never met the man."

  He nodded again. “I didn't think so. Mainly, I hoped to solicit your expert opinion on some writing—romance writing."

  He started to rise so he could give her the composition book in his left hand. But she stole a march on him, crossing to his chair, taking the book, and flumping down onto a velvet hassock a few feet away, one hand smoothing her skirt. After reading perhaps ten pages she looked up at Reno, eyes bright with roiled emotions. “This is simply superb. I've had twelve romances published, three of them bestsellers, and this makes me jealous. Is the author local?"

  "He was. Pete D'Antoni evidently wrote this. And it's possible he entered this, or other samples of his work, in the local romance writing contest."

  "Oh my ... so that's why you spoke with Lydia?"

  "Yeah.” Samantha made no effort to leave the nearby hassock, and her proximity made Reno feel a tight bubble rising in his chest. “I wanted her to read this, too, but I managed to insult her and she tossed me."

  Samantha giggled. “Well, Lydia is certainly no saint, but it's just impossible to think she could be involved in any serious crime such as murder. She's been too busy with her agency and her own writing—I take it she mentioned to you that she recently sold her own first romance after years of selling them for others?"

  "Actually, no. How recently?"

  Samantha's eyes widened and she aimed an entreating gaze at Reno. “Oh, don't get me wrong! It was sold several months ago, but it was definitely her writing. I adore her, but she's not a first-rate talent when it comes to writing fiction. I read the entire manuscript, and it simply can't match this writing you brought tonight. In fact, Lydia sold her book to a fairly obscure publishing house for a very modest advance."

  Samantha fell silent, watching her visitor. “Did you speak,” she finally added, “with the other contest judge?"

  "There are two?"

  "Until last year, yes. A former client of Lydia's helped out."

  "But D'Antoni's submission was sent to your agent,” Reno pointed out.

  "They all are, to keep things simple. Lydia gave half of them to Susan Gray. She lives up near Riverbend. She no longer writes."

  "Burnout?"

  Samantha's heart-shaped lips pressed into a frown. “No, legal distractions. She's had recent difficulties with the IRS, something about hiding assets, as well as two civil suits for plagiarism."

  "She's a romance writer?"

  "That's debatable,” Samantha replied. “I know my claws are showing, but I've never liked her. She likes to ‘set off whispers,’ as they say, and her on-the-make husband would seduce a Vestal Virgin. She's more flashy than talented, and the male love interests in her fiction are too much like her real-life husband James: solitary men with cold manners. Her ‘love’ scenes are mere mechanical descriptions devoid of warmth or feeling."

  "How recently was she still a client of Lydia's?"

  "Until last spring. Susan fired her after a royalty dispute. I don't know any details."

  Upstairs a child cried. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Maitland,” Reno said as he stood up. “I'll let myself out."

  * * * *

  New Orleans was called the Crescent City because it was situated on the first of two large bends in the Mississippi River. The second bend formed the suburban Riverbend area, and Reno noticed signs of old money everywhere. But the fine old houses and crumbling slate curbs had the patina of faded glory.

  James and Susan Gray lived on Panola Street in a two-story house of vine-covered stone. Neglected crape myrtles languished in the strip of side yard. Based on what Samantha had told him last evening about the couple's legal troubles, Reno had decided on a drop-by instead of a phone call. He eased into the crushed-shell cul-de-sac out front and was halfway across the lawn when the front door opened.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a seawater-blue silk robe bent to scoop up a newspaper. He had a handsome but despotic face under a thatch of unruly, sand-colored hair.

  "Mr. James Gray?” Reno inquired.

  "Since birth. Who and what are you?"

  "The name's Reno Sloan. I'm a private investigator. I wonder if I might speak with your wife?"

  "Ahh, the fog lifts. You're here about the so-called plagiarism charges—"

  "I'm not. No charges are involved. Is your wife home?"

  His mouth curled into a sneer. “You're out of luck, shamus. She's disporting herself abroad. We take separate vacations."

  Reno glanced past him. All he could see was a short hallway with a large Chinese vase on a teakwood base.

  "I can't invite you in,” Gray added. “I have company downstairs, and at the moment she's in dishabille."

  "You pick odd times to read the paper."

  "Bottle it, Sloan. Unlike a lowly security guard, you don't even have a badge."

  Reno spread his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just have a few questions. Maybe you could help me?"

  "Normally I'd just toss you, but I'm curious to know what Susan has done now. That woman can ride out any scandal, but I worry about the legal costs. Fire away."

  "I understand your wife used to be one of the judges for a local writing contest?"

  "Writing contest? Hell, she paid a Tulane grad student to read that dreck."

  "Did she ever have dealings with a man named Peter D'Antoni?” Reno asked.

  "She's had dealings with plenty of men, so I can't say no. First I've heard of him, though."

  "Has she ever employed a ghostwriter?"

  "Possibly. She's a lazy wench. If so, she kept it secret from me."

  Reno suddenly felt weary. James Gray's sneering attitude boiled down to one word: whatever.

  "Well,” he told Gray, “back to the salt mines. Thanks for your time."

  * * * *

  The second time Reno stopped
by the Maitland residence, in the middle of the afternoon two days after his first visit, a young black woman with stiffly sculpted hair answered the door.

  "May I speak with Mrs. Maitland?” he inquired. “My name is—"

  "Hello, Mr. Sloan!” Samantha's voice called from the hallway. “It's all right, Yolanda, please let the gentleman in."

  The maid disappeared into the bowels of the big house while Samantha led him into the side parlor. She wore matching white khaki shirt and shorts and a rose-colored sun hat.

  "I notice you didn't answer the door yourself this time,” Reno observed as he sank into the soft leather chair. “Is there a secret hall porter, too?"

  Her playful tone implied he was a naughty thing. “Did I ever once say I don't employ a maid? She's off at five P.M."

  A mechanical smile was the best he could muster.

  "Was your visit with Susan Gray productive?” she asked.

  "I didn't talk to her."

  "You didn't—? But why?"

  "Because you were using her as a smoke screen to throw me off and buy a little time—maybe to leave the country."

  An ugly constriction of her mouth transformed her into another woman. “I should throw you out, but I confess I'm curious to hear your ‘evidence’ for such a conclusion."

  "To begin with, no one has ever confused my mug with Fabio's. Yet you and Lydia both came on to me. And both of you were dressed to the nines to receive a lowly keyhole peeper."

  Her confidence was back. “What did you expect—a riding crop and handcuffs?"

  "Both you and Lydia,” he pressed on, ignoring her, “were too willing, and quick, to see me. Nobody has to talk to a private dick, and in my experience it's often the guilty parties who are most eager to cooperate and create the illusion of innocence."

  "This isn't evidence!"

  "Not in court, but it works for me. Another thing—within thirty seconds of meeting me, you described yourself as ‘paperwork rich but pocket poor.’ If that were true, you'd hardly parade the fact—especially as a writer with a public image to maintain."

  "Good luck proving anything in court,” she lashed out. “All this is so thin it's not even circumstantial."

  "This is a bit more damning,” Reno replied, pulling a paperback titled Cypress Nights from a back pocket and flipping it open. “My ex is one of your biggest fans, she loaned this to me. Here's what first caught my eye: ‘Hers was a more subtle, sloe-eyed beauty that left glowing retinal afterimages when he closed his eyes.’”

  He looked up at her. “I figure he mailed all the tablets to you, but he must have copied one for proof. The first forty pages of Cypress Nights are almost verbatim from Pete's composition book. His handwriting can be factually established, and it will do no good to say he copied it from your published book—forensics can date the drying of ink to within a few days."

  The lull after he fell silent became painful, then excruciating. The color ebbed from her face.

  "Even if you manage to ruin my career by proving D'Antoni wrote some of my novel,” she finally replied, “it doesn't prove I killed him."

  "No, but I suspect that gun making a bulge in the side of your handbag might. Amateur killers seldom bother to get rid of murder weapons. And before you try to douse my light, just a warning: Under my shirt there's a .45 automatic in an armpit holster."

  A haggard slump of her shoulders was Samantha's only visible response. When Reno fished the nickel-plated .38 snubby from her bag, she suddenly collapsed into a wing chair, her face bloodless.

  "I tell people my husband and I are split up,” she said as if the words were being wrenched out of her. “In truth, he left me for an ‘actress’ in L.A. I was devastated, I couldn't write, and I had just signed a three-book contract worth almost a half-million dollars. Lydia only showed me D'Antoni's work—a sort of nudge. It was I who looked him up from the address on his submission."

  She sent Reno a pleading glance. “It was only meant as a desperate stopgap until I could get my muse back. I never expected such success. D'Antoni already had several entire novels, so I typed one into my computer and my editor raved over it. I bought two more—all three made the Times list."

  "I take it you paid him?"

  She blushed to the roots of her hair. “Yes, but just barely enough to salve my conscience. He didn't seem to value his work all that much, and I feared that paying him too much would, well, tip him off."

  "That'll earn you jewels in heaven,” Reno barbed.

  "My efforts didn't matter. He became aware of the books’ success and got quite upset with me."

  "And instead of just brooming him, you had to kill him?"

  "Yes," she said emphatically. “It wasn't the money, he didn't care. He wanted recognition for his work. Even if he couldn't have proved he wrote the books, I couldn't risk being linked to such an ... unromantic figure. And if he could prove authorship I would have been devastated financially—ghostwriters can be kept secret from readers, but never from editors. I would have been forced to pay every dollar back."

  Reno tapped the number of the Sixth District police headquarters into his cell. Before he sent the call he met Samantha's eyes. “You may decide to fight this. But there's a good chance Lydia will be charged in a conspiracy and turn state's evidence, adding stronger motive to the forensics evidence. It's a lead-pipe cinch that most juries will be hostile to a rich, prominent woman who grinds up a man as poor and maladjusted as Pete D'Antoni. Just remember: Plead guilty and there's no jury."

  Reno sent the number. While the phone burred, he glanced outside through the parlor windows and watched the rapid onsweep of dark clouds. The mother of all storms was said to be gathering strength out in the Gulf and might even be drawing a bead on New Orleans. It'll blow past us, Reno thought idly. They usually do.

  Copyright © 2006 John Edward Ames

  WHEN THE LEVEES BREAK by O'Neil De Noux

  * * * *

  Art by David Sullivan

  * * * *

  Born and raised in New Orleans, where he was a police officer in adjacent Jefferson Parish for twelve years and a P.I. for six years, O'Neil De Noux is cur-rently in Lake Charles, LA. Still displaced by Katrina, he's attempting to resettle along the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain. His new book, New Orleans Confidential, is a collection of 1940s noir P.I. stories.

  Five days before Katrina blew into town, topping the levees in Jefferson and St. Bernard Parishes, breaking through the levee at the 17th Street Canal, the London Avenue Canal, and Industrial Canal to inundate New Orleans, Detective John Raven Beau started his vacation by having his houseboat raised into dry dock. Five days after Katrina, Beau sat in a flat-bottom pirogue next to Sad Lisa. The hurricane had lifted his houseboat off the dry dock and deposited her between the remains of two huge boat sheds and the skeleton of Joe Boughten's Boat Repair Yard, which had shielded the big winds from Sad Lisa, now floating in eight feet of water that covered the entire area. Lake Pontchartrain had taken the land as far as Beau could see.

  With the strong summer sun beating down on the brown water, Beau and his partner had to shield their eyes from the glare with hands over brows, although both wore dark sunglasses. The stench was the worst part, reeking of dead fish, mildew, and a thick petroleum smell. The oaks were dying, the ones that hadn't toppled over. The roofs of large trucks could be seen on what used to be high ground, boats littered the entire area, most upside down, half-sunk, pleasure crafts next to shrimp boats. A half-mile away, the levee breach at the 17th Street Canal was still pouring into the city.

  "Well, she's not listing,” said Beau's new partner, Juanita Cruz. Five years younger than Beau, Cruz was twenty-five and had been promoted to detective a month before Katrina—or B.K. as it was now known. For the rest of time, this new New Orleans would be A.K.—after Katrina. Her brown-black hair pulled into a bun, she wore a black T-shirt over baggy black nylon pants and black combat boots. Across the rear of her T-shirt, NOPD was stenciled in silver letters. Beau wore the
same getup, his .9mm Beretta Model 92F in a canvas holster along his right hip.

  Beau tied up against his houseboat, heard a noise, and looked up into Joe Boughten's face. Joe smiled weakly and said, “She's seaworthy. Only one around here that is."

  Beau climbed aboard, followed by Cruz. Joe, in a soiled T-shirt that was once white, baggy gray shorts, face unshaven, eyes bleary, held up a can of beer and said, “Want a brew? They're hot, ‘a course, but that's the way the British drink it, ain't it?"

  "Engine ruined?"

  "No gas. We emptied the tanks, remember?"

  "How'd you get beer?"

  "I stocked up before the storm.” Joe belched, then excused himself to Cruz, who stared at him real hard.

  "Tell me you didn't ride out the storm,” Beau said as he looked around Sad Lisa. Pieces of railing were missing, so were the seat cushions of the built-in seats, but he'd stored the radar and antennas below before putting the boat into dry dock, so it didn't appear much else was missing. Then he saw the tarp on the roof. Joe had covered a hole.

  Joe waited for him to look back before saying, “It was like bein’ in the middle of an atomic blast.” He turned to Cruz. “Wind so strong, rain slammin', waves crashin', things flyin', hittin’ everything.” He belched again and took a step back. “Been listenin’ to the radio. Is it true about all the shit at the Dome?"

  Beau shrugged. Cruz told him some of it was true.

  Joe waved his hand. “No looters been by here yet, but they will, I'm sure."

  "Unlikely for the moment,” said Beau. “We had to get through two checkpoints. Coast Guard and National Guard stopping everything on the water."

  "Good. Bet they don't check at night. Never seen it so dark around here."

  Beau went inside and dug out a canvas suitcase and started packing clothes. He could smell bacon now, saw a pan on the stove with three slices in it. There was enough propane to last awhile. “Hey,” he called out to Joe.

  "Yeah.” From the deck.

  "Thanks for saving my boat."

  "It saved me."

  Cruz came down and Beau grabbed another bag, shoving every T-shirt he had inside, along with extra jogging shoes. He wished he had something that would fit Cruz. They'd just come from her apartment on Fleur de Lis. Seven feet of water and still rising. She'd lost everything. The woman looked shell-shocked, eyes trying to focus. She moved in slow motion. Lack of sleep. Neither had slept much.