by B K Baxter
I stared down at the book, considering all that had happened since that first meeting. I’d started the club to do something good for the community, and it had ended up with someone dead. I didn’t feel responsible for Tabby’s death, but I did mourn for the lost opportunity. I wanted to bring people together. Instead, things were falling apart.
I’d managed to make a few friends in my new town, and they were good ones. Char, for instance, was fast on her way to being the best friend I’d ever had. My life had been a fulfilling but solitary one back in Baltimore, with most of my friends being work colleagues who I didn’t see after the library closed. It felt good to have a partner in crime that wasn’t four-legged and furry.
But the number of potential enemies I was making far exceeded the handful of people who seemed predisposed to like me. It seemed everywhere I turned, I was stepping on toes. And a few of those toes belonged on powerful feet. If the people of New Orleans decided to hold a grudge, I might never be accepted in my new hometown. For someone who’d set out to help build community, I sure had managed to screw it up royally.
Maybe I could reinvent myself, like Gatsby had. He’d had a war to work with, though. I wasn’t sure what kind of re-branding I could manage that would make the residents of New Orleans flock to my house for legendary social events. Maybe I should consult Dinah on that one.
While I was on the subject of Dinah Mercer, I wondered what category she fit in. Not a friend, really, but so far, she didn’t seem like an enemy. Just a very determined historical society president. Maybe Dinah was right in a way. Maybe this was too much house for me.
More like too much town for me. Apparently, size wasn’t the sole determination of the level of chaos that could befall a municipality. I could cut ties. Sell the house and make amends with Uncle Mike’s memory.
As much sense as that might make, the truth was I liked New Orleans. Sure, I wasn’t thrilled with its secrets, and some of its inhabitants might make me cringe, but overall, it was a nice place to live. I felt more at home here than I had ever felt in the big city.
Still, if Stanley ended up convicted for this crime, I wasn’t sure if I could live with myself or the town anymore. A perversion of justice on that scale was just too unacceptable. Having to see the look on Wanda’s face every time I ran into her at the Tip Top or Pop’s gas station, it would kill me. Knowing that I failed her son would haunt me. So would the fact that a murderer was still walking free among us.
I shivered at that thought, bringing my focus back to the book cover. The pair of bright floating eyes stared back at me over the lights of the city. I knew that the cover art was meant to reference the billboard mentioned in the book. The eyes of a long-dead doctor keeping eternal watch over an ash heap.
It hit me suddenly what the eyes reminded me of. The faded ad for reading glasses, sitting in Mercer Drug, looked surprisingly similar. They stared with their sightless gaze at the world before them, brooding over the ebb and flow of the town’s currents. They could watch, but they couldn’t affect those they watched over.
Be it the valley of ash or the sultry streets of New Orleans, Louisiana, the eyes could keep their vigil, but fate still played itself out as written. The parallel was a little jarring, so I sat down to clear my head.
Returning to the investigation, I again reminded myself of the basic facts. Despite the staging, the truth was that Tabby Means died of an overdose. I’d tried once to chat with Patirck Mercer about where those drugs could have come from, but he’d tightened up quicker than a virgin with a hand on her knee. At the time, I’d assumed he’d taken offense at being considered a possible avenue for drugs that had been used to murder someone.
But as I considered it now, why wouldn’t he be considered? As Char had said when Chonks used her pill bottle for a toy, most everyone in town got their prescriptions filled through Mercer. Of course, he’d be the first one the cops would question about a controlled substance, right? Then why was he so defensive?
I looked at the intricate glass-domed clock on the mantelpiece and realized I had a little time before the drug store closed. I could get down there just before Mercer locked the doors and have a little chat with the pharmacist. If he had nothing to do with the drugs that killed Tabby Means, then he should have no reason to worry.
Really, I was the one who should worry. If I burned my bridges with Mercer and I was wrong, I’d be driving all the way to Laplace to fill my prescriptions from now on.
Chapter 24
I stood in front of the giant eyes, so like Dr. T.J. Eckleburg’s, and wondered what they’d seen. The drug store would be closing soon, and through the large glass fronts, I could see that it was already empty of customers. Patrick stood behind the pharmacy counter, his back to the street, presumably counting out pills and placing them into their containers.
The streetlights began to flash on around me, causing me to glance down the street. I saw the laundromat across the street from Mercer Drug and, at the end of the block, American Auto Garage. I remembered then who owned each property. Mercer and Means, Means and Mercer, their marks on each property like invisible flags claiming territory. The whole town could practically be divided up that way.
I shivered, even though I wasn’t in the slightest bit cold, and pulled open the door and went inside. Patrick looked over his shoulder when he saw me enter, then quickly turned back to the task at hand. I wandered aimlessly down the aisles, building up the courage to have what my mother might have called “a difficult conversation.” That usually described a discussion of why I wasn’t dating or whether I saw grandchildren in her future. The conversation currently in the offering was darker but no less fraught with danger.
I was considering the claims on the back of a bottle of lotion when a voice came from over my shoulder. “I’m closing in about five minutes.”
I jumped in surprise, then laughed nervously. Putting the bottle back on the shelf, I turned around. “Actually, could you help me with something? I can’t sleep, and I’m hoping you can recommend something.”
“Follow me,” he said, his earlier friendliness absent. Patrick apparently was no longer fond of the town’s new assistant librarian. He led me to a shelf with a multitude of sleep aids. I looked at a couple, then frowned.
“Are these the strongest you have? You see, I suffer from pretty acute insomnia and I haven’t gotten barely any sleep for days. I had a prescription back in Baltimore, but it’s expired now and I’ve yet to see a doctor since I got to New Orleans.”
Patrick frowned. “You could probably call your doctor, get one last renewal on your current script.”
“She’s on vacation,” I said, improvising. “Europe. Won’t be back for several weeks.”
“Then I suggest you go see Charlotte Rains at her clinic. She’ll likely prescribe something for you.”
I made a pout. “You see, Dr. Rains and I sort of have a little misunderstanding. Long story short, she won’t see me as a client.”
It was clear Patrick was quickly losing patience with my plight. “Then you’ll have to see a doctor in the next town over. All I have is what’s on the shelf, and I’m about to close, so please make your choice.”
“None of these will work,” I whined. “And I’m sooo tired. Do you know what it’s like not to be able to sleep?” I moved closer and started wheedling. “I know you have stronger stuff in the back. All I want it a couple pills, just for tonight. I swear I won’t tell a soul.”
“I could lose my license,” he growled. “Stronger medication is strictly controlled.”
“They’ll never find out,” I countered. “Just two pills? In all the thousands you deal with every week?”
“I have to keep a strict inventory. If anything is missing, I have to account for it if there’s an audit. Even if it’s just two.”
I tried to keep hidden my excitement as Patrick followed me down the garden path, right to where I had a bear trap hidden among the flowers. “If that’s the case, then how long will it
be before the authorities figure out that the medication used to kill Tabby Means came from your pharmacy?”
I knew it was a longshot, but it was the only shot I had. It was a classic blindside, and for a moment, I thought I’d failed, but then I saw his face crumble.
“How did you find out? Did she tell you?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure it out.” I jerked my thumb at the front door. “Why don’t you lock up and turn off the sign? Wouldn’t want anyone disturbing us, would we?”
Patrick did as I suggested, shoulders slumped and face a mask of despair. When he’d locked up behind us, I asked him what prompted him to participate in a heinous murder.
“It never started like that,” he protested, his face full of alarm. “When she first came to me with the idea of convincing Means to sell, I thought it was a good one.”
He’d yet to tell me who the “she” he was talking about was, but I wasn’t about to interrupt him now. It was clear that Means was somehow involved but wasn’t the main character. Which meant Vince hadn’t killed his wife after all.
“If the thing went off like she said it would and tourists started flocking to New Orleans, then I’d stand to make some money too. I’ve already got plenty of inventory that would sell well with that kind of crowd. If she could get the lot at the end of the block, I knew she’d turn it into something special.”
My eyes widened as I suddenly understood what Patrick was talking about. “The museum. Of course.”
He nodded. “But Vince wouldn’t sell, and he made darn sure everyone knew it at the Papa Noel ceremony. Dinah got upset, and she got to where she couldn’t sleep at night, or so she said. She came to me, saying she needed something to knock her out at night. Dr. Loomis wasn’t taking her seriously, so could I get her something stronger?”
“I told her what I told you, and she said she understood. Then she asked me what I would prescribe so she could go back and argue some more with Dr. Loomis. I told her about the liquid benzodiazepine, saying she wouldn’t need too much and she could mix it in with some juice rather than swallow a bunch of pills.”
He looked out over the quiet street and frowned. “I figured I’d heard the end of it, that Dinah had given up on her dream, but I was doing a monthly inventory on my stock recently and that’s when I noticed I was missing something. A big bottle of liquid benzodiazepine. The dosage was so big, I only stocked it for the local hospital in case they somehow maxed out their supply.”
“You think Dinah took it?”
I could tell he didn’t want to say, but he finally nodded. “She’s my cousin, and this is one of the buildings that’s been in our family for generations. I know she has a key somewhere. She’s got keys to a lot of the historical properties around town, it turns out. I saw the ring once in her purse when she was digging for one of her business cards. I asked her about it, and she blew me off, saying something about the purview of the president of the historical society.”
He gestured to the wall where a small white box with a gray keypad set. “If she had the key, it would have been easy enough to find out the combination for the alarm. All she’d have to do is watch me set it.”
I was quickly coming to grips with what had been revealed. Dinah Mercer took the benzodiazepine. Did that mean she also killed Tabby Means? But why?
“You have to go to the police,” I told him.
Patrick hung his head. “I know. When I found out about Tabby, I felt so bad I almost turned myself in then. But I didn’t want to lose my business if the city decided I was an accomplice. I’ve built this drug store up all on my own, and I’d even had plans for an expansion if the historical museum brought in enough tourist dollars.”
I watched as he heaved a sigh, genuinely upset at the turn of events.
“I realize that it must be disappointing to lose out on your dream of selling joke hats to folks on summer vacation, but a woman is dead because of your cousin’s hare-brained scheme.”
Guilt made him green at the gills. “I know. And I’m ready to confess my part in this.”
“Good.”
I knew I was on my way to freeing Taz, but I still wasn’t sure our case was strong enough. We could postulate that Dinah stole the drugs from Patrick’s pharmacy, but could we somehow connect her to the crime itself? That was the next necessary step if Rains was going to believe that someone other than Taz killed Tabby.
“I will meet you at the police station,” I told Patrick. “I just have to make a quick stop first.” I made it to the door and waited for him to unlock it. As I was making an exit, I turned back to him. “And if you think you can just change your mind and sweep this under the rug, think again. I’ll make sure to hold you accountable.”
“I’ll be there,” he said, his face belonging to a defeated man.
I hopped into my car, even though I was only going a few blocks. As I pulled away from the curb, the eyes of Mercer Drug watched over me.
Chapter 25
I knew that it was after hours for City Hall, but often, government functionaries weren’t always out of their offices on time. I figured if I could find a way in, I could make it to the records room and grab a few choice items with which to make my case with Sheriff Rains. It wasn’t even half past five yet, which gave me a good chance of finding an opening.
The big front doors were locked, but I knew that every side of the square building had an entrance. It was on the back side that I found an unlocked door and let myself inside.
As I made my way up the stairs, I went over what I’d just learned. Dinah Mercer, the woman obsessed with preserving New Orleans’s storied past, might have gone as far as murder to accomplish her goal.
She’d been pushing for a historical museum, and I had envisioned some lovingly restored historical property, some plantation house with stately columns that she would fill with period pieces and small lettered signs proclaiming the year each object had been made. But if that were the case, why not use her own house? That was a property she already owned. Instead, she’d been planning something at least in part on a property owned by Means.
I assumed it would be one of the properties that adjoined, but something Patrick had mentioned was tripping me up. He’d said “the lot at the end of the block.” That meant I was looking for a plot that was at the end of a block of city street or even county road.
And then there was the matter of Dinah’s keyring. Patrick said she had a ring chock full of keys. I considered her role as both president of the historical preservation society and as the lead realtor in the parish. If she made copies of any keys given to her while selling a house or inspecting a property for historical certification, she could have entry into half the buildings in New Orleans.
It was another reason to pull the paperwork. If I could figure out what property Dinah had her eye on for the museum, I might be able to determine whether she had keys to other properties—properties owned by Vince Means.
Reaching the entrance to the Records Office, I turned the knob, but it didn’t budge. The office was locked. I tried jiggling the knob just in case it was stuck but had no luck. Turning around, I leaned my back against the door, head touching the frosted glass, and let out a long sigh.
I needed something to bolster the case against Dinah Mercer. Patrick’s testimony was damning, but the more threads tying her to the murder, the better. I wanted the property maps and titles to show the scope of Dinah’s plan and speak to her motive. It might not be a smoking gun, but it would at least show that she could benefit from the Means tragedy.
But if Dinah was determined to get a plot of land off Vince, why kill Tabby? The question struck me suddenly, and I wanted to groan in frustration. I felt like I was so close to unraveling the mystery. There was just one piece that wasn’t clear.
What did Tabby have to do with Dinah’s beef with Vince? Why murder her when it was unlikely she’d be able to affect the property transfer anyway?
I was so lost in thought that I didn’t hear the clack-cl
ack-clack of Gita’s heels as she approached. Her voice pulled me out of my reverie. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
I turned, surprised at the look of hatred on her otherwise beautiful face. “Beg pardon?”
“You and Dr. Rains and your ridiculous little scheme. I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”
I frowned, confused. “Look, Ms. Clarke. I’m not sure what you’re talking about but I can assure you that—”
“No. Let me be the one that assures you.” She stepped closer, pressing her index finger, topped by a blood-red fingernail, into my chest. “I’m on to you. You need to back off, or you will regret it.”
I was no longer in the mood to play nice. I needed to get back to the police station. “Look, I don’t have time for your games. I’m trying to aid in a police investigation. You can do me a favor and unlock this door, or you can leave me alone.”
She looked at me like I’d slapped her. “Aren’t you a piece of work? I don’t know who you think you are, but let me remind you of your place.” She looked me up and down, hostility radiating out of her small perfect pores. “You’re a librarian, a nobody, just a mousy overgrown girl who needs to go home and let the grownups go about their business.”
“Sure, whatever,” I said, waving away her insults. “If you’re not going to open the door, then you’ll have to excuse me.”
I pushed past her, causing her to exclaim in surprise. She wasn’t caught off guard for long however. Her heels clicked after me, her tone harsh. “You don’t get to dismiss me! We aren’t done here.”
“What do you want, Gita?” I asked over my shoulder as I kept walking. “I’m busy.”
“I told you what I want. Leave Vince alone.”
I stopped, the realization that I was right about Gita and Vince’s secret hitting me. “You’re having an affair with Vince Means.”
