by B K Baxter
He didn’t answer for a moment, just slowly cleaned his glasses. I thought maybe I’d offended him, but he finally replaced his glasses back on his face and spoke. “It’s a shame, but just because we’re not a big city doesn’t mean we don’t have our share of crime. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I doubt it will be the last.”
His words gave me a chill, turning the sweat on my brow cold. “They said he gave her something to knock her out. Any idea where he could have gotten something like that?”
His mouth flattened into a line. “Just what are you suggesting, young lady?”
I straightened and held up my hands, palms up. “I’m sorry, Patrick. I didn’t mean to offend you.” I laughed nervously. “I’ll level with you. I’m a big Agatha Christie fan, and now it’s like I’ve walked into one of her novels. I got a little carried away.”
Patrick’s expression loosened but only slightly. “I’ll tell you what I told Sheriff Rains. He didn’t get it from me.”
“I never thought he did,” I said, my tone softening. “I assumed it was something someone could get on the internet.”
“Not without a prescription, not the pure stuff. You could get knockoffs from Southeast Asia, sure, but not the legitimate drug.”
“So the person responsible would have to have a prescription?”
“The amount you’d need to overdose means it would have to be a very concentrated, large dose. I don’t know anyone who would prescribe that much to one person. With a quantity like that, it most likely would have been taken from a supply more suited to a hospital or sleep disorder clinic.” His words were matter of fact as he straightened the hats on display.
Although it was clear he wasn’t happy with the topic, he was providing me with a lot of much-needed information.
I decided to press a little more. “You’ve lived here a long time, right?”
He nodded perfunctorily. “All my life.”
“Is there any reason you can think of that Stanley might have wanted to kill Tabby?”
“I don’t know why any sane person would want to kill anyone,” he said in a huff. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work.” He abandoned the hat rack and strode back down the aisle.
“Wait! I have to pay for this cap.”
“On the house,” he said without even turning around.
It looked like I’d won the freebie lottery today. First the pastries and now a hideous hat.
“Thanks, Patrick,” I said, wondering if I’d permanently burnt a bridge with the pharmacist.
I let myself back out onto the sweltering sidewalk, this time not bothering to run back to my car. I would have to accept this liquid heaviness that made it feel like you were swimming rather than walking. I reached my car, leaning against it to have a look at the state of downtown New Orleans on a Friday afternoon.
Before I could take in my surroundings, my bare arm touched the metal of my car and I let out a screech of pain at the burning sensation that followed. Calling myself nine kinds of moron, I unlocked my car and climbed inside. I turned the key, cranked up the air, and started for home.
Chonks was there waiting for me. I expected the usual dance that took place no matter what time I came home. He’d paw at my legs, complaining loudly about the state of his food bowl. For as big as that cat was, you would think he had never had a meal in his life from the way he carried on.
However, the joke cap seemed to put him off. He eyed the hat and ran off down the hallway, his tail swishing madly. I sighed, too tired to try and figure out what his deal was. I hurried to my sanctuary, shutting the library doors behind me and hitting the fan setting on the air conditioning. Soon, the room was as cool as a refreshing cocktail.
I didn’t bother sitting down, knowing that Chonks would be scratching at the door soon enough. Less than a minute later, I heard his indignant cry in the hall and let him in, closing the door behind him to keep the air concentrated in the library. I collapsed onto the soft leather sofa, and Chonks followed, jumping up onto my stomach and proceeding to make biscuits out of my shirt.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I noticed was the insistent buzz of the doorbell. The shadows had lengthened in the library, and it was clearly a couple hours later than it had been when I’d settled onto the sofa.
I hopped up, still groggy, and hurried to the front door. Char was on the porch, a big paper bag in her arms. “Hey girl. Figured I’d pay you back for the beignets. How about some Thai food?”
“Thai food? In New Orleans?”
She laughed, walking inside. “Actually, it’s from a client. She’s an immigrant from Thailand and one of the only clients that doesn’t compare me to Dr. Loomis. The only problem is, she pays her bills mostly in sticky rice and spring rolls, which isn’t a currency most of my creditors accept. But it does help keep my belly full.”
I was beginning to realize that Char’s stomach called the shots, but I couldn’t get mad. The Thai food smelled too good. Waving her in, we made our way to the kitchen.
Char emptied the bag of the containers it held while I pulled down a couple plates. Before long, we were both sighing in delight over the food we were ingesting.
“I miss Thai food,” I said. “That and being able to get something hot to eat after nine PM.”
Char laughed. “Yeah, after Sparky’s closes, you’re pretty much dependent on your own culinary skills. But that’s the charm of a small town, right? No night life, no exotic restaurants, and a pharmacy that follows bank hours.”
“Speaking of the pharmacy, I had an interesting chat with Patrick Mercer today.” I set down my fork and leaned back in my chair before relating the details of my awkward conversation.
Char started coughing on her curry when I mentioned my Agatha Christie cover story. I couldn’t tell if it was surprise at my genius or laughter at my folly that made her choke. Then I told her what Mercer had said about the funeral.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, wiping at her mouth with a napkin. “He could be right. Tammy does like to make a fuss over anything she can, and Vince generally doesn’t appreciate her hollering.”
“A private funeral,” I mused. “It’s like they’re trying to put a lid over this thing as tightly and as quickly as they can. Arrest a suspect, one that will never speak out because he generally doesn’t speak at all. Then sweep everything under the rug before anyone realizes the truth.”
Char frowned. “I hope the ‘they’ you’re talking about doesn’t include my brother. He’s a good sheriff and a good man. Charlie is working with the evidence he has, which is probably a lot more than we have. Right now, all we’ve got amounts to a bunch of speculation and some good old-fashioned gossip.”
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s time to get serious about evidence. I made an appointment for an oil change at the garage where they found Tabby’s body. And I’m going to figure out a way to talk to Vince, to see if he had anything to do with this.”
Char let out a whistle at my ambition. “Good luck getting old Vince Means to sit down for a little chat. When he’s in the office, he’s busy. And when he’s out of the office, he’s not the type that likes to be disturbed.”
“Well, I don’t like the New Orleans Book Club being disturbed either. If I’m smart about things, he won’t even realize that I’m looking into his wife’s death.”
“Okay, Miss Marple,” she replied, nodding. “Let me know how I can help.”
“Figuring out where the drugs Tabby overdosed on came from would help.”
Char cocked an eyebrow. “Boy, you don’t ask for much, do you?”
“You’re the coroner. I imagine you work pretty closely with the local authorities. Maybe you can push your contacts, see if you can convince someone to share what they know.”
Char stood, crossing to the sink to rinse off her dish. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best. Charlie is playing things real close to the vest. Maybe he has his own suspicions about
this thing being too tidy.”
I was escorting her back to the front door when Chonks accosted us, lying down right in front of our path. Char giggled and leaned down to pet him, but before she could reach his fur, she let out a huge sneeze, causing him to give her an indignant look before racing from the room.
We both laughed, even though I said it was unkind to laugh at someone crazy, even if they’re a cat. Chonks let out a meow from the windowsill where he’d fled to safety, almost as if he was complaining about what I’d said.
“I’ll let you know if I get anywhere on Vince,” I said. “Maybe I’ll hit some good luck and—oof!”
The loose board Dinah had pointed out caught on the end of my bare foot and I tumbled to the floor, getting the air knocked out of me. I was fortunate to be in the company of a doctor, who immediately took a look at my foot.
“You’ll live,” she pronounced. “Although another fall like that could be worse. I suggest you give Ethan a call.” She pulled out her phone and texted me his number. “He’ll get it fixed up fast and won’t charge you an arm and a leg. Although he might ask for two legs in your case, since the one is now damaged.”
I hustled her out the door, laughing sarcastically at her joke. Shutting it behind her, I leaned against the door and looked at my phone where the handsome handyman’s number was staring back at me.
Being taken out by an avoidable injury wouldn’t help my investigation. That was just pure logic. No one could accuse me of any inappropriate motives.
I’ll call him tomorrow. Strictly for business and not because I want to see his muscles flex in his plaid shirt while he works.
Chapter 8
The doorbell caught me off guard, and I managed to spill some of the hot tea I was making on my hand. Shaking my head at my accident-prone nature, I hustled to the door, this time aware of who stood on the other side.
It was two in the afternoon and Ethan was right on time. He greeted me with his lopsided smile, saying he’d already found a loose step on his way up to the porch. “Old houses like this always have some bumps and bruises, but it’s not hard to fix things up if you have good bones.”
“Thanks for coming out on short notice,” I said, already getting flustered by his attractiveness and unable to come up with a play on “good bones” that didn’t sound either morbid or sexually inappropriate.
“There isn’t much else to do on a Thursday afternoon in New Orleans when it isn’t football season,” he replied. “It’s either this or trying to pull some fish out of the river.”
“I guess you weren’t one of those invited to Tabby’s funeral.” The words just came out since we were mentioning alternate activities taking place today. I hadn’t considered Ethan in connection to the crime at all.
He paused, puzzled for a moment. “No, I guess not. We weren’t very close.”
Feeling like an ass, I figured it was better to show him the needed repairs before I choked on my foot any further. Pointing out the loose board where I’d tripped last night, I started listing a few other places where the boards were coming up.
Chonks strolled down the hall like he’d built the place, standing directly in Ethan’s way.
“Who is this prince?” Ethan asked, scratching the butterball behind the ears.
“You’re making the acquaintance of Sir Chonksworth the Bold, first of his name. Long may he reign.”
“Well, aren’t you someone special?” he murmured when Chonks threw himself to the floor for better pets.
“He certainly thinks he is,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “Feel free to move him along when he gets in your way. He thinks he knows better than everyone.”
“He probably does,” Ethan replied, his pitch rising an octave. “Don’t you, Chonky-boy? How about I make you my assistant?”
His interaction with my cat was adorable, pushing my attraction to near crush levels.
“I guess I will leave you boys to it then.” I positioned myself in the sitting room with a book at first so I could steal glances at him while he fixed the loose board. When he moved to the flooring in the second-floor hall, I pretended to dust the empty bedroom across from where he was working.
Back in the parlor, I organized the knick-knacks while he took care of the nails coming out of the floor. I thought he might get suspicious, but he seemed engrossed in conversation with his newly appointed assistant.
“You see, Chonky-boy, if you just hammer these back in, it’s only a matter of time before they pop up again.” He pulled out his drill, holding it up in front of Chonks, who, for his part, looked interested. “You have to replace the nails with screws and use a dab of this wood filler here to make sure they stick in the same holes.”
Chonks didn’t mind people, but there were very few he was this enthusiastic about. It seemed in the case of Ethan, we were on the same page.
I finally retreated to the kitchen, fanning myself—but for once not because of the heat. When I heard Ethan head out onto the porch, I made up two glasses of lemonade and took them out the front door. He was working on the loose step, so I set the glass of lemonade on the railing and took a seat in one of the old rocking chairs to drink my own glass.
“This is the last thing on the list,” he said as he finished fixing the step. “All the issues were minimal repairs, and I had the materials I needed with me.”
“I’m glad they are all so easily fixed.”
I could hear scratching at the door and I shook my head. Chonks never scratched at the door. He was an indoor cat and he seemed to have made his peace with that fact. Sure, there was the one incident with the neighbor cat, but other than that, Chonks had accepted his fate.
“He must really be into you,” I said, jerking my thumb at the door. Just like his owner.
“That makes two of us.” Ethan straightened, putting a hammer back into his toolbelt which hung from his lean hips. “I love cats, but I haven’t brought home another one since Buster died. He was a big orange barn cat and my best buddy. He left some big shoes to fill.”
I was beginning to think the entry under “perfect” in the dictionary would need to include the phrase “see also: Ethan Millbank.”
Ethan climbed back onto the porch and took a long drink from his glass of lemonade. “So how are you liking our little town?”
“It’s different, but it’s growing on me. Have you been in New Orleans long?”
“Just since I was born. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Which is why I go around fixing up old houses like these every day. I want to preserve the beauty of this place, keep it alive for future generations.”
“It’s nice to have a career you find rewarding,” I said. “Like me and the library. My love of books makes the job enjoyable, and I get to share my passion with members of the community.”
I realized how that could have sounded right after I said it, but thankfully, Ethan didn’t seem to notice. “My passion is these old houses. I’ve studied types of antebellum architecture, the historical materials they used, and the building techniques the people of New Orleans used to employ. My specialization keeps me pretty busy around here, as these old places are always a little temperamental.”
“You’re not the only one who is enthusiastic about old houses,” I said. “For instance, Dinah Mercer. She was the one who cataloged all the little repairs you just handled.”
Ethan chuckled. “She’s a one-woman historical society.”
“She said it could be a jewel in the right hands.” I paused. “I don’t think she considers mine the right hands.”
Chuckling, he wiped his brow. “She’s just in love with history. If Dinah could press rewind on New Orleans, she would. I think it has to do with restoring her family’s prominence in town. I heard that they used to rival the Means back before the War. But the Means family’s star had risen while the Mercers’ plummeted. She could be trying to bring back their former glory.”
So Dinah’s desire to preserve the town’s history was per
sonal. If she could control the narrative of the town’s history, she could elevate her family’s place in it. It was a useful fact to learn today, and it made me realize that Ethan was a resource just as good as Char and Sally.
“You’ve lived in New Orleans all your life. Would you say what’s going on concerning Tabby Means is normal for your town?”
Ethan’s expression said my question caught him off guard. It took him a moment to respond. “I’m not sure what you mean by normal.”
“Murder, for example. It’s not normal in New Orleans, I assume?”
“Not by any means.” He ran his hand through his hair, considering. “It’s not like it hasn’t ever happened, but it’s rare, and it’s usually in the heat of passion.”
“So something pre-meditated is even rarer?”
Ethan nodded. “To have someone plan something like what supposedly went down with Tabby is not something I can remember ever happening.”
“And what do you think about their suspect?” I was trying not to lead him but to find out his thoughts about Stanley without them being biased by my own impressions.
“Taz?” Ethan shook his head. “He’s never struck me as the type, but I’ve heard rumors about his past. And you can’t always tell who might snap and do something unexpected.”
I figured that counted as a neutral vote, which was better than an automatic assumption of guilt, the rumblings of which I’d heard around town.
“There is one thing weird about the murder, though,” he volunteered, standing close enough to my chair for me to make out his faintly woodsy scent. “I don’t know why the murderer would try to make it look like a suicide. Anyone who knew Tabby also knew she was the type to lash out at others and not herself.”
A bemused look came over his face. “One time, I’d been up at the Means’ property doing some work for Vince. We were out by one of his sheds that was in the process of collapsing from rot when Tabby came charging across the lawn. She walked right up to Vince and slapped him across the face, then turned around and stormed off without saying a word. Vince just continued like nothing had happened.”
