Praise for Imogene in New Orleans:
“Hunter Murphy’s charming debut of a murder mystery will have you wanting to hop a riverboat and join senior citizen Imogene, the boys and insatiable bulldog Goose on their hunt for a killer through the lush streets of New Orleans.” --Deep South Magazine
“Hunter Murphy’s debut, Imogene in New Orleans, introduces a feisty Southern mama who takes murder in her stride when she vacations in New Orleans with her son Billy, his partner Jackson, and their English bulldog Goose. The irrepressible Imogene will endear herself to mystery readers as a latter-day Miss Marple who leads her “boys” on a merry chase while solving a murder.”
--Dean James, author of the New York Times bestselling Cat in the Stacks mystery series
Imogene in New Orleans
Hunter Murphy
Rolltop Publishing
Kindle edition
Rolltop Publishing
IMOGENE IN NEW ORLEANS
Copyright © 2014 Hunter Murphy
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for purchasing an authorized edition of this book.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9909792-1-0
Cover illustration and design by Philip Pascuzzo
Formatting by RikHall.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks go firstly to Kristen Weber, who provided editorial assistance and direction of the highest order. She remains one of my most trusted and forthright advisors, and I count meeting her as a real gift on this road to publication. I would also like to thank Penina Lopez and Maryann Miller- two forces for good writing- as well as Ron Joullian, Dean James, Stephanie Youngblood, Elizabeth Craig, Erin Bass, Brother Jimmy, Leah Bigbee, and Ginni Bailey, for offering encouragement, support, and in many cases, feedback on the book. Philip Pascuzzo designed the perfect book cover. I cannot thank him enough for his artistry and his vision. I appreciate Rik Hall for formatting the book and for offering suggestions and advice. Most importantly, I want to thank Danny, who has been with me through the entire process. No amount of hyperbole could describe how wonderful he’s been. Our life together is the supreme adventure.
For Danny
One
“Why you wanna treat Mama like she ain’t got sense?” Imogene took another picture of Lake Pontchartrain as she and the boys and Goose crossed the bridge to New Orleans. She shook her head and then flipped her gray hair behind her ears.
“I’m not saying you don’t have sense, Mama. I’m just saying you need to be on your best behavior.” Billy strapped on his blood-pressure monitor and then glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She snapped more pictures with her new camera as Goose waited for another treat.
“Shoot, I’ve been behavin’ forty more years than you, son. Your daddy didn’t treat me this way. I couldn’t have stood it if Virgil bossed me like you.” They passed a shirtless fisherman in overalls and a mesh hat. Imogene pointed the lens at him. “Lord, I miss Virgil. He loved to fish…and wore a hat just like that when he done it.”
Jackson patted his partner’s leg and then squeezed it. He knew full well Imogene was trying to make her son feel guilty. “Imogene, he’s not bossing you. He just wants you to be safe. New Orleans can be dangerous.” Jackson winked at Billy, but Billy focused on his blood-pressure reading, anxiously fidgeting in his satchel, which he kept with him at all times. He used his satchel to carry medical supplies, like his blood-pressure cuff, blood-sugar monitor, sugar test strips, small stethoscope, flashlight, heating pad, moist towelettes, energy bars, bottled water, his medicine, and when Imogene traveled with him, her medicine dispenser.
Jackson knew better than to comment on his partner’s anxiety, because crossing the bridge to New Orleans was obviously unsettling, all twenty-three miles of it.
“Shoot, ‘safe’ is Imogene Deal McGregor’s middle name. Y’all are just taking sides against me ’cause you love one another.” She patted Goose’s red fur.
Jackson smiled. “We’re not taking sides. Are we, Goose? Tell your grandmother.” Goose looked noncommittal, sitting lazy-faced and tired after the five hours in the car. His drooping jowls brushed the seat. The English bulldog had already enjoyed several highlights on this vacation so far: two pieces of beef jerky, six dog biscuits, three handfuls of corn chips, and a bowl and a half of cold water from the cooler. Imogene had administered most of the treats, even though the boys told her she was feeding him too much. Her response was a variation of “’Cause he looks so sad,” and “he knows Maw-Maw loves him. Yes, him does.”
“Well, here we are,” Jackson announced as they made it across the bridge. Billy let out a sigh of relief. “We’re okay. We’re on vacation. I can’t wait to hear that New Orleans music at the Louis Armstrong Festival.” Jackson turned up the dial on the stereo, and the sweet sounds of brass filled the car.
Jackson sensed that Billy was studying his driving position, and sure enough he had something to say. “You don’t keep your hands on the wheel. We could’ve drowned in the lake at any moment.” Billy fidgeted with the monitor and then brushed his fingers through his blond hair.
“Nonsense, my little cabbage.” At the next red light, Jackson put his index finger on Billy’s pouting lips to silence him. Imogene took a picture of the city as Jackson got on I-10 and drove to the exit nearest Esplanade Avenue, heading for the French Quarter.
“What did Neil say, boys?” She handed Goose a corn chip that had fallen on the floorboard. The beast chomped and swallowed it. She smacked her leg in amusement. “You love your granny, don’t you, sweet boy?” Goose scooted closer to her.
“Neil told us to meet him at Glenway’s Gallery over on Royal Street.” Jackson straightened his collar.
“What’s this street here, then?” Imogene rotated her camera and clicked.
“This is Esplanade.” Jackson pointed. “The music festival we’re attending will be at the end of this street.” Enormous oak trees towered over the boulevard, which boasted homes with fine woodwork, wraparound porches, and moss on the sidewalks. “There’s nothing like a house in New Orleans. Would you look at those balconies and columns?” He rolled his window down to take in the sounds of life in New Orleans. He saw Imogene stick the camera out the window and then look proudly at the screen. “It was Billy’s idea to get you the camera.” Jackson said. He watched her in the mirror as she frowned and looked ou
t the window. He turned and headed for the studio on Royal Street.
“The Quarter’s nice, ain’t it? I like that Gilbert boy. He was always good to Maw-Maw McGregor. He paints the prettiest pictures in this whole town too. And he don’t try to boss nobody.”
Billy shook his head. Jackson ignored the comment. “Yeah, Neil said we have to pick up Glenway at the studio. We’re having a big dinner tonight at Neil’s house, and he wants Glenway there. Said something about not hearing from Glenway for several days. They always invite friends over on Thursday nights for dinner, but Glenway didn’t show last night.”
Imogene removed her white-rimmed sunglasses and wiped the lenses. Jackson saw her cut a look at the back of Billy’s head. “You reckon Neil tries to boss the Gilbert boy? Naw, I doubt it. Neil’s a sweet one too.” She snapped a picture of a man using an ornate cane to walk down the street.
“Glenway and Neil aren’t boys. They’re nearly sixty years old.” Jackson looked at his salt-and-pepper hair in the mirror, raising his sunglasses to study his prematurely gray curls. “Gosh, I look sixty, don’t I? A thirty-year-old shouldn’t have this much gray.”
“Shoot, you act sixty. Don’t he, Goose? Y’all are two old men up there. I’m the young one in this car, and me seventy-three. Two old fogies, Goose, that’s what them boys are.” Upon hearing his name, Goose edged closer to her, awaiting another morsel of deliciousness.
“Hey, boys, didn’t Neil say the Quarter got the best pictures in all America?” Imogene straightened her wide-rimmed hat, which the boys had bought her for the trip. “Somethin’ like that.” They passed elegant and rustic shop windows that looked Parisian. “And the Gilbert boy’s got the best spot, don’t he?” No one answered her. “And the prettiest flowers. Shoot, my mama could grow ’em like that.” She snapped a picture of a craftsman-style home made of wood and stucco. From its ornamented porch, begonias and petunias grew toward the street.
While Imogene stared up at the second and third-floor residences in the historic neighborhood, the boys discussed the best way to park the vehicle. On weekday mornings, Royal Street was closed to vehicles, except for through traffic, so Jackson turned down the nearest alley. He saw an unmarked police sedan two blocks over, which was strangely conspicuous. Imogene snapped a picture of the car.
“Come on, Mama. Why are you taking so many pictures?” Billy wiped his face with a moist towelette from his medical satchel.
“’Cause it’s my vacation, boys. I didn’t come all the way from Alabama just to be a sad sack like y’all. Now, y’all bought me this contraption and I aim to use it. Don’t boss your mama, son.” This theme of bossing had progressively gotten worse since they’d driven through Mississippi, and Jackson hoped it would soon die down.
“I’m not. I’m not. All I’m saying is you don’t have to take a thousand pictures of the city. We’ve been here before.” As soon as they stepped out of the car, the August heat of New Orleans engulfed them. Billy immediately began fanning himself. Jackson helped his dog disembark and then Imogene. Just as he was closing the doors, their friend and host Neil rounded the corner.
“There he is, boys.” Imogene limped over to him first. The car ride had affected her arthritis. She had broken her hip a few years back, before Jackson and Billy moved in together, and now she had a funny movement to her left leg, as if she were swinging a bell from her foot.
“Hey there, Imogene,” Neil said, opening his arms to her. Neil looked the same as he always did, sporting a jet-black mustache, a golf cap, blue jeans, and a loose-fitting shirt.
“Hey, shug. I ain’t seen you in a year. You losin’ weight?” Imogene patted him on the shoulder.
“No, ma’am. You can’t lose weight in New Orleans.” Neil smiled. He stood with his arm around Imogene as Goose sauntered over to him. “Goose, what do you think about the city, bud?” Goose heaved in the humid air. “Let’s get you inside.” Neil took the leash from Jackson and then hugged his friend.
“I’ve missed you guys and Imogene, of course. I don’t know what’s wrong with Glenway. I spoke to him two days ago. He didn’t show up to our usual dinner last night, but you know how he is. He’ll find some guy and get obsessed with him and we won’t see him for weeks on end. We call it his ‘disappearing act.’” Neil fidgeted with his mustache, patting it down with his thumb and index finger. He stood close to eye level with Jackson, just under six feet tall.
Jackson noticed the concerned look in his eyes as he clenched his lips.
“So, you haven’t talked to him today?” Jackson rubbed his friend’s neck.
“No. I don’t know what’s going on with him. Of course, it doesn’t bother Allen a bit, but I hate when Glenway runs off like this.”
“Maybe he’s just workin’, son. He makes pretty pictures.” Imogene looked around the street at the ferns hanging from the balconies. A carriage passed by, and Imogene pointed at it. She took half a dozen pictures of the horse and driver. “This place ain’t like nowhere else, boys.”
“Yes, ma’am. I noticed Glenway’s car parked behind the studio. Let’s go see if he’s here.” Neil swung open the door and held it for Imogene. There was a tall step into the gallery, which Imogene struggled to make. She winced as she lifted her leg, slapping Billy’s hand away when he tried to guide her upward.
“Well, ain’t this something? Cool as a cave in here, boys, and look at that.” Imogene pointed at the paintings hanging on the gallery’s walls. Glenway had created vignettes of his favorite streets and courtyards and spaces in the city. If the painting included people, Glenway always used his friends and lovers and acquaintances as models.
“Hey, there y’all are,” Imogene said, pointing to a painting of Neil and his partner, Allen, riding a Mardi Gras float and throwing beads. She took a picture. They walked in front of another one featuring a brass band with Billy painted as the drummer, his straight blond hair raised off his head as he beat the drums. Jackson stood beside him, playing the trumpet.
“Y’all should’ve told Mama you were in a paintin’. I would’ve bought it and put it on my wall at home.” She raised her voice to say it, almost like a kid will do in a quiet library. Jackson watched several customers in the store turn to her. Billy prodded her toward the back of the long gallery, which stretched a half block from the front door to the back. Tract lighting illuminated the paintings. The gallery felt every bit of its nineteenth-century age but was well kept, clean, and preserved. Plants hung from the exposed brick, and an enormous bouquet of flowers sat on the desk next to the cash register. Neil nodded at the clerk and went to speak with her.
Imogene and the boys walked carefully out into the courtyard, an enclosed space with walls thirty feet high. She had to take pictures of the fountain in the center and the exotic ferns spilling out of enormous planters in all four corners, where Carnival beads hung from the green branches and leaves. Instead of pennies in the fountain pond, there were doubloons and trinkets from parades past.
“Sights and wonders, boys. Ain’t this place magic?” She scanned the tall enclosure. Goose took a seat in the shade of the fountain and let the water splash his red fur.
“It looks like something from an Alexandre Dumas novel. Like the prison for the Count of Monte Cristo.” Jackson admired the sandy, 1840s brick.
“Prison? Naw, Jackson. This ain’t no prison, son. This here’s a fancy place.”
He heard several clicks from Imogene’s camera. After a few minutes, Neil returned and led them to Glenway’s work space. He withdrew a set of keys and began searching for a specific one.
“Does Glenway keep his studio locked?” Jackson asked.
Neil unlocked the glass French doors hidden at the back of the courtyard. “When the gallery’s open, he keeps the doors locked so he can work undisturbed. Plus, there are valuables in here.”
The artist’s studio was a mess—paintings, art supplies, easels, and bottles of wine scattered along the concrete floor. Imogene started picking up the trash. “Lord, he�
��s worser than y’all. With all those fine pictures and such, he ought to hire some help, boys.”
She found a box of pralines and stuck a couple in her pocket while Jackson watched. He noticed her stashing a piece of paper in her purse too, as she kept an eye on Billy who had his back turned. She snapped pictures of a curio containing exotic figurines carved from jade and some sparkling blue gemstone. The figurines were fashioned to look like Carnival participants, musicians, voodoo priests, nuns, revelers, and other fanciful characters from Glenway Gilbert’s imagination. The door to the curio was ajar.
Jackson watched Imogene shuffle over to a calendar on the desk with Glenway’s personal and gallery business. She mumbled the scribbled names written down. “Neil and Allen and then Rogers, Catfish, Lena, Blue Moon, Canebrake, TH, and Pirate.” Her voice trailed off as she photographed the calendar.
“Mama, don’t mess with his stuff.” Billy walked over to her. He was sweating in his polo shirt and shorts.
“I ain’t messin’ with it. I’m admirin’ this desk here.” The antique rolltop desk suited her fancy, apparently, well enough to inspire her to click the camera a half dozen times. She took two more shots of the calendar, and Billy went to sit on a bench.
Jackson cupped his hands around his mouth and called out, “Hey, Glenway, you here, bud? We came to see you. We brought Imogene.” There was no answer from any of the shadowy nooks in the studio.
Neil said, “Hey, Glenway, it’s the middle of the afternoon. Surely you’re not asleep. Remember, you’re coming to dinner tonight with the boys and Imogene?” Neil frowned at the silence and then turned to the boys. “You know he has that place over in Algiers. He stays there a lot with his current beau. That’s probably where he is, which means he’ll cancel dinner tonight.” Neil patted his mustache again and then jerked his head, as if he had just run into a cobweb. “It pisses me off when he acts like this.”
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