The Great Catsby

by B K Baxter

  I scanned the room to spot the subject of our conversation, and I found Stanley browsing the New Releases shelf.

  “Why doesn’t he talk much?” I asked, hoping the question wasn’t rude.

  The corners of Sally’s lips turned down. “He had a rough childhood. I think that had something to do with it. But I’m not a psychiatrist, so don’t quote me on it.”

  Taz bent down to pull a book off the shelf, and when he straightened, he started, noticing that Tabby had approached him while he was distracted.

  “How’s about I give you a lift home?” Tabby asked, running a finger down the front of Stanley’s T-shirt. “I’m going in that direction, and you’ll have to walk otherwise.”

  Sally frowned, and when she spoke, it was like she was talking to herself, her voice low and her words mumbled. “I’m sure it’s fine. He takes groceries out there all the time. That girl might be trouble, but Stanley is harmless.”

  She blinked, then turned back to me. “Well, anyway, I better get home before the mosquitos wake up since I’m walking. Thanks again.” Another wave and she headed toward the exit, following behind Tabby and Stanley as they sailed out the green doors.

  “Whatever happened to your uncle?”

  I turned and realized the question was coming from the older woman in the designer pantsuit. Dinah looked like she spent hours making sure every hair was in place and unmovable as a mountain.

  “He passed. Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, her face not showing any evidence of regret. “Does that mean you’re now in possession of his property?”

  I nodded. “He left it to me, which is why I moved down to Louisiana.”

  “It’s a fine example of antebellum architecture,” Dinah stated. “I would love a tour.”

  She was intense. It was a lot for me right then. “I’m sorry, but I need to put the room back in order. Thanks for coming.”

  I turned and started carrying chairs back to the tables to which they belonged. Char lent a hand, helping to put the room back to rights. By the time we’d finished, we were the only two people left in the library.

  “Sorry about that introduction by fire,” the doctor said with a chuckle. “Our town might be little, but it isn’t exactly quaint.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “With a group this spirited, we’re bound to have some good discussions,” I said, hoping to convey some optimism.

  “Sure. They just might not be about the book.” Char put her bag over her shoulder. “You free tomorrow? We could grab some lunch and I could fill you in on exactly what you’re getting into with this lively cast of characters?”

  “I’d like that,” I said, meaning it. I might have a couple acquaintances in New Orleans, but so far, none had crossed the line into friendship. And as the doctor seemed to be about the most normal person I’d run into yet, she could prove a good start.

  “Great. Meet me at Sparky’s at noon.” Char departed, and I stopped by the circulation desk to gather my things.

  As I locked the library doors, I realized I’d just had more interaction with patrons than I had during my entire employment at the Enoch Pratt Free Library back in Baltimore. I’d always wanted to move from cataloger to librarian, to share my love of books with the public. I’d just never envisioned a public that might take more joy out of the drama arising from the discussion of the books instead of the drama in the books themselves.

  I knew one thing for certain. The New Orleans Book Club wasn’t going to be boring.

  Chapter 3

  Sparky’s Diner was the kind of place I would happily drive past to find a chain restaurant where I knew the bathrooms would be clean and the menu adequate. The sign out front was dingy, as were the sun-worn booths. Walking through the door, I was hit with the smell of grease that seemed to be baked into every surface.

  I slid into a booth, then wiped my fingers on a paper napkin from the metal dispenser after touching the menu. It was sticky, the laminated page covered in a spilled sugary drink. Leaning over the table to peer down at the menu, I frowned at the misspellings and limited offerings.

  Lunch consisted of several “baskets.” Hamburger basket. Cheeseburger basket. BLT basket. Turkey and swiss basket. Fried fish basket. Fried chicken basket. And something called a “muffaletta basket,” whatever that was. I saw no mention of a salad.

  Guess my diet starts tomorrow. Just like yesterday.

  An attractive waitress appeared beside the booth, her jaws working. She was chewing gum, which went along well with her disinterested demeanor. “What can I get you, hon?” she asked, her pencil tapping against her order pad.

  The nametag on her faded pink uniform said “Presley” and I wondered if it was a nod to the late great singer who’d been affectionately known as “Elvis the Pelvis” by some fans.

  “Could you bring me a glass of ice water? I’m waiting for someone to join me.”

  She turned without a word, and I wondered if I was experiencing some of that famed southern hospitality I’d heard so much about. Presley reappeared and set down the water. Then she stalked off toward the kitchen. I saw that she wore kitten heels and I wondered how she stayed on her feet all day in them. I only wore heels when forced. Then again, I didn’t have the waitress’s legs.

  Uncle Mike might have called them “great gams.” I had only met my uncle a handful of times, but I’d always been amused at his antiquated vocabulary as well as his wandering eye. He’d once told the girl behind the counter of the ice-cream shop he took me to for my tenth birthday that he’d never seen a broad with sweeter stems.

  I looked out the window to New Orleans’s quiet downtown but there wasn’t much to see. A few storefronts, an elderly woman sitting on a bus bench, knitting needles in hand. In the distance, I caught the occasional bright glint off the Mississippi’s muddy waters. It was quite a change from Baltimore, but I hadn’t yet made up my mind if it was a good change or a bad one. Maybe it was just mediocre.

  “Gonna let me off early tonight, Sparky?”

  I turned my head to stare through the cutout that opened into the kitchen, where a man in a hairnet with patchy gray stubble prepared baskets of artery-clogging lunch for his patrons.

  He grunted, causing Presley to pout, hands on her faded pink hips. “You know I got that thing tonight. I gotta look nice.”

  “Speed dating in Baton Rouge ain’t a thing, Lee,” Sparky said as he set a plate in the window. “I ain’t got no one to cover the end of the dinner rush if I let you go early.”

  “It’s Wednesday,” Presley countered. “Ain’t gonna be no dinner rush. Now you know I never ask you for anything—”

  “You asked for last Thursday afternoon off. And the week before, you had to take your mama to Shreveport on Friday, and I had to ask Della to come lend a hand. You know she hates that.”

  “That’s because you need a pry bar to get your wife’s ass off the couch,” Presley said.

  “No gripin’ about Della, Lee. She covered for you and didn’t say an unkind word.”

  “Della’s a saint then,” Presley said, throwing her hands up and stomping out of the kitchen. She was back at my table in less than a minute. “Made up your mind yet?”

  I blinked, then tried on a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m still waiting for my—”

  She was walking away before I finished my sentence. I heard her back in the kitchen shortly after.

  “Come on, Sparky. I’ll come in on Sunday morning to make up for it.”

  Sparky let out a burst of air through his pressed-together lips. “Don’t give me that old promise. You ain’t once shown up for a Sunday-morning shift.”

  “Can you blame me for likin’ to go dancin’ on Saturday nights?” Presley tried a different tack, her aggression replaced with a little-girl voice. “I’ll wash your truck and clean the garbage out of the bed. How long’s it been since someone did that for you?”

  Sparky sighed but finally gave in to her wheedling. “Fine, you can leave ear
ly if you roll all the silverware and fill up all them sugar containers.”

  “Done!” she said, then leaned over to kiss his flushed cheek. “Thanks, Spark!”

  The waitress had a smile on her face when she returned to my booth. “What’s it gonna be, hon?”

  I was just about to tell her for the third time that I was waiting for someone when the diner door opened and Char rushed in.

  “Sorry!” she said, a bit breathless as she slid into the booth. Char looked at Presley and gave her a grin. “Let me get a muffaletta basket and some sweet tea.” The doctor looked over at me. “What’d you order?”

  “I was… uh… waiting for you to show. I’m not sure yet.”

  “Bring her a muffaletta basket too.”

  Presley nodded and made her way to the kitchen, her heels clicking on the linoleum. I focused my gaze on Char, who was typing on her phone.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said after a moment, tucking her phone in her pocket. “Today has been an absolute bear.”

  “Busy with patients?”

  Char shook her head, then took a gulp of the sweet tea Presley put in front of her. “I wish. But most folks in town don’t trust the ‘girl doc.’ They still go to old Dr. Loomis, even though he’s in his eighties and his vision has been fading since the early aughts.”

  She made a slight grimace, grabbed the sugar container, and poured some into her tea. “They never make it sweet enough for me. Anyway, where was I?”

  I was beginning to think I’d misjudged Char. She’d seemed to be relatively normal last night. But showing up late, ordering for me without asking my opinion, and her lack of focus made me wonder if I’d made a mistake.

  “Oh yeah, no patients today. At least, none of the living variety. Since most of the folks in town avoid me, I’m forced to take on less savory tasks, like acting as the parish coroner.”

  Her words sank in. “Like handling dead people?” I didn’t consider myself squeamish, but the thought of touching dead flesh always made me feel nauseated. “How did you get that gig?”

  Char shrugged. “My brother’s the sheriff, and he offered me the gig when the last coroner retired. There weren’t exactly a ton of candidates, and he knew I could use the extra money until my clinic picks up. It’s actually the reason I was late today.”

  My breath quickened. She’d come to lunch with me after inspecting a dead body. I fought back the bile that threatened to rise in my throat. Presley appearing saved me from having to say anything.

  The pretty waitress set down two red plastic baskets filled with some kind of sandwich and a pile of what appeared to be homemade potato chips with some kind of orange seasoning.

  Char dug into her basket with a passion. “Try it,” she said between bites. “You’ve never had a sandwich like this. Trust me.”

  The sandwich was comprised of some kind of white bread, deli meats—all pork, sliced white cheese, and an oily slaw of some kind containing diced olives, celery, cauliflower, and carrots. The whole mess was covered in garlic and oregano.

  Nothing about this combination made my mouth water, but the way Char was inhaling hers made me willing to take a chance on the unknown. I lifted the concoction to my mouth and took an exploratory bite.

  Flavor like I’d never tasted exploded on my tongue.

  “See?” Char said, her voice muffled by the bite she was currently chewing.

  I swallowed, then tried one of the chips. The Cajun spices proved a nice complement to the Italian sandwich.

  “Now if I can just get you to try sweet tea,” Char said after she took another drink of hers.

  I shook my head. “I have to draw the line at all that sugar. I mean, you’re a doctor. You can’t tell me that much sweetener is good for you.”

  “It might not be good for the body, but it’s good for the soul.”

  We both laughed, and I realized that Char might not be normal, but normal had never been a requirement for my friendship before, and it made no sense to make it one now, especially in New Orleans.

  I watched as she wiped her hands on a napkin, then leaned back in the booth, putting her hands on her stomach with a groan. “I love those things, but I always get too full, and then I want a nap.”

  I set the sandwich down, not even halfway through it. I couldn’t afford a lethargic afternoon as I’d promised Luanne that I’d finish transferring the young adult fiction to the new shelves we’d recently had installed. “Thanks for the lunch suggestion. I never would have tried it if you hadn’t forced my hand.”

  “Happy to do the dirty work,” she said, then stared me in the face. “I hope you’ll take this next part as easily as you accepted the lunch order.”

  Brow furrowed, I asked her what she meant.

  Char leaned in and grabbed a hold of my hand. I thought it was odd until she spoke again. “We’re trying to keep things real quiet for now. You know how quickly rumors can spread in a small town. I’m only telling you because it might have some bearing on the book club.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, goosebumps breaking out across my skin.

  “That dead body I mentioned? It’s Tabby Means.”

  Chapter 4

  I almost choked on the sip of water I’d just taken, and I grabbed a napkin and patted my face. I needed to recover from the shock of what I’d just learned.

  Tabby. The mouthy blonde from last night. She’s dead.

  “Wait, did you say Tabby Means?”

  Char nodded. “She’s married to Vince Means, the richest man in town. Vince was married to Mercy before he dropped her for Tabby. Hence their little dialogue last night.”

  I nodded. It made sense, even if two women who hated each other passionately having the same name didn’t.

  Char kept her voice lowered, looking around to make certain we weren’t overheard. “She was found this morning in one of the bays in Scar’s garage, so someone at the book club meeting last night is potentially the last person to see her alive.”

  My eyes widened. “Do you know what happened yet?”

  “The theory is suicide,” Char replied. “There was a hose attached to her exhaust pipe that was pushed into the back window. The car could have idled until it ran out of gas. By that time, Tabby would have been stone cold.”

  I swallowed hard, pushing the basket of half-eaten food away from me. I could feel my stomach arguing with itself on whether to keep its contents or to reject them. A few deep breaths staved off the worst of my nausea, but I was still horrified.

  “She doesn’t seem like the suicide type,” I whispered.

  Char shrugged. “Suicide doesn’t always have a type. I’ve done a rudimentary examination of the body, and so far, there doesn’t look to be any other causes of death. No marks, bruises, or anything else that might signal foul play. But I sent some samples into the lab just to make certain. We’ll have our answer soon.”

  “She was married to the richest man in town. She was beautiful. Those seem like some pretty heavy advantages. Why throw it all away?” I still couldn’t believe that the fierce female from last night would turn around and take her own life.

  Char sighed. “While New Orleans might seem like a charming southern town on the outside, it has its dirty little secrets. Especially when it comes to the town’s most prominent figures.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of City Hall, which was just visible in the distance from the diner’s front windows. “Take the mayor, for example. It’s an open secret that he’s having an affair with his assistant.”

  I blinked, wondering how Dottie had let something like that slide when she was usually so eager to gossip about anything and everything tawdry in New Orleans.

  “And when Tabby and Vince hooked up, it was nothing short of a scandal. The whole town was on edge, likely because the sugar refinery that Vince owns is New Orleans’s biggest employer. Everyone thought Mercy would take Vince to the cleaners and he might have to sell the refinery, but it never happened. As you can see, Mercy’s
churning out jewelry to make ends meet while Tabby rides around like queen of the Parish.”

  Char finished off her sweet tea. “Well, she used to anyway. My point is, if you’ve been seeing our quaint little southern town through rose-colored glasses, it would be wise to trade them in for a magnifying glass. You won’t have to look too deep to find the skeletons people around here are trying to bury.”

  My gaze unfocused and wandered the diner as I absorbed Char’s words. When it hit on the clock over the door, I realized I was going to be late getting back from lunch. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this conversation short,” I said, the apology in my tone apparent. “I have to get back to the library.”

  “I hope I didn’t scare you off,” Char said, biting her lip.

  I shook my head. “I’m not scared of you. It’s the head librarian that puts the fear of God in me.”

  Char laughed. “Miss Luanne scares almost everyone in this town. Except maybe Scar’s old pit bull. My brother says they’re cousins.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Thanks for sharing today.”

  Char nodded. “I thought you might need to know before our next book club meeting. I know the first one probably didn’t go the way you’d planned, so I was hoping to save you from being blindsided a second time.”

  “I appreciate it. And thanks for the sandwich suggestion.” I pulled out a couple bills to pay my share, but Char waved it away.

  “It’s on me this time. Least I can do for being late.”

  I thanked her, then pushed my way out the diner’s door, hustling down the sidewalk to make it back to the library before Luanne noticed I was late. I should have known that luck wouldn’t be on my side.

  “Lunch breaks last one hour. No longer. No exceptions.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled as I passed her at the circulation desk. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t.” My boss fixed me with a heavy gaze. “Those youth fiction books are still waiting for your attention.”