“Wonder what he was paintin’ here?” Imogene pointed to an empty easel in the corner. It was set up for a project. She went over and sat in the stool in front of it and picked up a brush. “Look, boys. I’m the arteest now. One of y’all come over here and I’ll draw ye.” Goose feasted his eyes on the brush as if it were a long piece of beef jerky she was waving before him. “Just being honest with you, boys, but this place don’t seem like somewhere to sleep. ’Course, y’all know him better than me, but I don’t suspect he’s here. Not a bed nowhere.”
Neil patted her shoulder. “You’re right, Imogene. He really only stays here when he’s working late or out late at the bars, but then again his car is outside.”
Behind where Imogene sat on the stool, the back corner was dark. She scooted over to it and scraped the wall. “Boys, surely there’s a light. Goose, where’d you get to? I can hear you huffin’, but I can’t see you for nothing.” Goose sauntered over to her, breathing heavily. His paws scraped the floor. “Don’t let the boys step on you, Goo.”
Imogene made her way to the corner of the room. The only light Jackson could see came from the automatic flash. She limped around the far wall as her flash lit it up. “There’s a window, boys. Covered with a shade. Here.” She pulled it, revealing Glenway’s car in the alley, as well as Neil’s. She pointed to what looked like a gigantic sheet covering a nook in the corner. “Hey, what’s this cloth here for? It ain’t a shower curtain?”
“Oh, no, there’s no bathroom back here,” Neil said. He slid the screen and revealed an enclosure large enough for a futon, a coffee table, and a chair. A terrible scent flooded the room.
“Good God, cover it up, boys. A polecat’s got loose in here.” Imogene pointed at the screen with one hand and smothered her nose with the other.
“It does smell like a skunk, Mama. What happened here?” Billy slid behind her and leaned over her shoulder, as if he could use her as a shield in case of an attack.
The alcove was in shambles, broken bottles, candle wax everywhere, and magazines strewn on the table and floor. Glenway lay facedown on the futon. Jackson felt an uncomfortable tingling in his stomach.
“Hey, boys, there he is.” Imogene pointed at Glenway, but they had all seen him. Jackson hurried past her. “He’s not moving. Hey, Glenway, what’s going on? Why didn’t you answer us?” Jackson felt cold all over. He flipped on a light switch, which revealed his friend Glenway Gilbert’s limp, motionless body.
Now that the light illuminated the area, Billy walked past his mom. “Something doesn’t look right about his color,” Billy said. As a registered nurse, Billy was ever concerned with health, and he had a keen eye for irregularity in appearance. He knelt beside his old friend and felt his skin. “He doesn’t have a normal body temperature. He’s cool.” Billy glanced at Jackson with sunken eyes and then moved his fingers under Glenway’s jaw and felt for a pulse. He kept his fingers there for what seemed like an hour. He took a deep, audible breath and then sighed. “He’s dead. Glenway’s dead.”
Two
“Dear God.” Imogene leaned over Glenway. “Poor boy. Deader than four o’clock. What done it to him, Billy?” She studied the body, from the bottom of his casual shoes to the top of his red head.
Billy pulled Glenway’s collar down and revealed bruises leading from Glenway’s back up to his skull. His usually perfect red hair was tussled, and part of it was clumped up in a dried patch. “I don’t know what killed him.”
Imogene took a picture of Glenway’s body.
“Mama, stop taking those pictures. He’s dead.”
“Shoot. You already said that. You the nurse. Can’t you tell what done it?” She covered her nose to block the stench that was coming from the body on the futon.
“I know I’m the nurse. He has bruises on his neck.”
“Hey, sweetie, I don’t see any blood.” Jackson touched Billy’s shoulder, and Billy jumped back.
He turned to Jackson and then pointed at Glenway’s head. “I thought that was dye in his hair, but it’s not. It’s blood. And there’s some sort of indentation there on the back of his skull. Looks like something struck him or he fell on something. I don’t know.” Sweat beaded up on Billy’s sideburns, which he wiped with his shirt.
“Shouldn’t we call the police, Neil?” Jackson said. He turned around to see Neil shaking in the corner.
“Son of a bitch. Glenway.” The whiskers on Neil’s mustache trembled. He struck the wall with his fist. “I told you this would happen. Dammit.” He glared at Glenway’s body. “Why?”
Imogene limped over to him. “Son, stop causin’ such a fuss. They’ll think you done it.”
She helped Neil over to the stool in front of the easel. “Yeah, boys, we ought to call the constables and let ’em handle this.”
“Yes, of course,” Jackson said, grabbing his cell phone.
Neil removed his golf cap and rubbed his face with it. His black hair stood on end. “No, wait. Wait a minute.”
Jackson watched Neil take a deep breath and fix the front pocket on his shirt. He looked like a public speaker preparing for his audience. Goose shuffled over to him and started licking Neil’s leg as if to lend moral support.
Neil stood up straight and said, “Okay, I need y’all to take everything you can carry from this studio. I mean everything.”
Imogene looked at him closely. “You ain’t using sense, Neil. Whatchya say that for? That ain’t our place to carry off the Gilbert boy’s belongings, ’specially not with him dead.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and wiped his red eyes.
“Imogene, Glenway’s been complaining all summer. We thought he was just paranoid. He said folks were stealing from him. Said they were out to get him. He told us the police canceled several appointments to meet with him about his missing work. He starting hiding away even more than usual, avoiding me and Allen, which is why we invited him today and why we wanted him with us last night.”
“He met some hustler named ‘Buddy.’ I told Glenway the guy was no good, but Glenway never listened to my advice about his lovers. He’d fall for a river rat if he was shown attention. He had the worst taste. And no sense of safety. Since he wouldn’t listen to my advice, I didn’t listen to his complaints. And now look at him.”
Glenway’s cold body was paler than usual. His naturally fair skin had an ashy look to it. Billy continued to stand over the body, observing medical details. “You see, his fingernails have that purplish look. They’re just starting to turn.”
“How long do you think he’s been dead?” Jackson rubbed Billy’s back.
“Probably less than eighteen hours. I think it happened sometime last night. Or maybe…maybe this morning.” Billy started scratching his head. Jackson saw the scratching and he squinted at his partner as he recognized a familiar look in Billy’s eyes, an obsessive look found in sanatoriums across the country. Billy had furrowed eyebrows and complete concentration as he rubbed his cranium. Jackson knew that look. Billy was having some disturbing medical thoughts. Jackson had discovered that nursing was not the best profession for his partner and had often mentioned that during these manic moments. Billy obsessively ran his fingers through his blond hair. Jackson watched and then whispered, “Are you imagining getting your head clobbered?”
Billy stopped immediately and put his hand by his side. “No.”
Jackson nodded. “Oh, I think you are. Don’t worry, though. I wouldn’t let something like that happen to you.” He pulled Billy away from the futon and hugged him. “We need to get your mama out of here.”
Between caring for Neil and taking pictures of the scene, Imogene was stooping over and putting things in her purse. Jackson didn’t like it at all. “Neil, why are we doing this? If someone finds out we’ve taken things from Glenway’s studio, we’ll get in serious trouble.”
“I know, Jackson, but Glenway was paranoid about the cops all summer, and I didn’t listen to him. Now I don’t trust the cops to do what they’re supposed to
do. Please, just pick up everything you see.”
“Yeah, quit your hemmin’ and hawin’, Jack, and tote your own load,” Imogene said, excitedly picking up the entire box of delicious pralines. She made her way to the rolltop desk and looked at the calendar.
“Let’s see here. Look what he done just this month of August: ‘Meetin’ with Lena,’ ‘Meetin’ with Rogers,’ ‘Buddy,’ ‘Allen money.’ Shoot, the Gilbert boy was a busy fellar.” Imogene dropped her sunglasses on the floor and reached to get them. She leaned into the desk and felt around its base. She grabbed a leather-bound notebook and held it close to her stomach, trying to keep it away from the boys. Jackson watched her, though, as he and Billy both followed Neil’s instructions to collect important things.
Jackson saw Imogene slip the small leather book in her purse without Billy noticing. Billy walked over to Jackson and whispered, “We shouldn’t be doing this. This is a crime scene.” Jackson, who stood a head taller, squeezed his partner and then turned to Neil. “Neil, I think the cops ought to be here.”
Imogene scowled at the boys, as if they were ruining her adventure. She began feverishly stuffing her purse with everything that would fit before they could stop her. She pocketed matches, lighters, cigars, a cigarette case, a pencil, and a coaster with the name “Lafitte’s” on it.
“Just trust me. What happened here was not natural. I know Glenway was supposed to meet with the police this summer, some asshole named Captain Rogers or Sergeant Rogers. But one of Glenway’s complaints was that he could never get the officer to show up. I have a bad feeling about this, and if anything comes of us taking stuff, I’ll do the explaining.” Neil twisted the ends of his mustache and then searched the enclosure. He bent over and touched Glenway’s back. He had not yet made contact with the body since its discovery, and Jackson heard him sniffling. Neil stroked Glenway’s light red hair and mumbled, “He called that color ‘tangerine.’”
Goose had been in awe of the mess since he walked inside, and as soon as Imogene let go of his leash, he started sniffing the premises. He kept his smushed snout in the air as he walked around the futon. The earthy smell of Glenway’s body was not the only thing attracting Goose. He apparently smelled some leftover food on the coffee table in the alcove. A piece of garlic bread hung off a plate of cold red beans and rice. He lifted his head high to capture a whiff of the culinary goodness.
“Oh, hey, bud. You remember Glenway? He loved you.” Neil’s words fell on occupied ears. Goose looked at the bread and then back at Neil.
“Hey, what’s that?” Jackson asked. He walked over and put his ear to the door. Now they all heard some commotion out front—the sound of feet shuffling and keys jangling.
Neil craned his neck forward and then stepped back from the futon. “Hurry. Y’all go out the back door. Hurry. Imogene, here.” Neil ran to the desk, rolled up the calendar, and handed it to her. She grabbed it like an Olympic athlete grabbing a baton in a relay and immediately pushed past the boys to exit the studio. Goose had not yet given up on the red beans and bread.
Jackson had to coerce Goose, who planted his short legs against the concrete floor, refusing to leave peacefully. Jackson had to drag him, which elicited a healthy growl from the beast and an even greater attempt to stay put. Jackson wrapped his arms around Goose’s chest, picked him up, and started running to the car with him, his paws dangling in the wind. When he got to the vehicle, he said, “Hey, Billy, Imogene, you stay here while I make sure Neil’s all right. Crank the car.”
“Shoot. Where you goin’ then, Jack?” Imogene turned around and pulled her dress above her shin, ready to sprint with him.
“Just stay here, please.” As Jackson approached the alley door to the studio, he heard yelling.
“What in hell are you doing here, fellow?” The voice was gruff and enormous, a huge contrast to Neil’s, who had more of a gentle tone. Even at a fevered pitch, Neil’s voice could not reach such ferocity. Jackson slid to the alley window and peeked in.
“I’m Lieutenant Nathan P. Rogers. Who the hell are you?” The man speaking threw a duffel bag in the corner of the room, which made two wine bottles crash together. He was all sharp, jagged lines, from the cut of his strong jawbone to the cut of his dark suit. His shoulders were so broad, he looked like you could strap him into a plow and break an acre of dirt in a half hour. Currently, he towered over Neil. “Can you not speak?”
Jackson saw Lieutenant Rogers’s nostrils flaring up. The man suddenly looked like a bull preparing to attack a matador. Neil’s wild black hair trembled under his golf cap. Neil wasn’t short, but the gruff Lieutenant Rogers engulfed him.
“Of course I can speak, Lieutenant Nathan P. Rogers.” Neil spit the words more than he spoke them, spraying the lawman in the face. “If you’d give me a minute, I’d talk. I’m Neil, Glenway Gilbert’s best friend. I came here with some friends from Alabama, who’re visiting us for the week. We were here to pick up Glenway for dinner. We didn’t know he was dead.”
Lieutenant Rogers twitched. “Dead? Who said anything about being dead?” He pushed Neil out of the way and began scouring the room.
Jackson saw Neil grab the desk to stay vertical. “What the hell? I said he was dead. He’s back here on the futon.” Neil held the screen curtain as Rogers clomped toward the alcove. “What? Why didn’t you call the police?” Rogers folded his arms and poked his chest up toward the ceiling.
“Because I just got here, Lieutenant. You’re presumptuous and obnoxious, aren’t you?” Neil crossed his arms. He looked like he could spit again.
“You’ll watch your words around me, or you’ll be the first one I book on suspicion of murder.” Rogers barreled his way toward the coffee table, kicking it out of the way, which caused a shrill sound on the concrete floor.
Neil stepped back as he spoke. “Me? And how did you get here so quickly, bucko? Like you said, I didn’t call the police. I guess you were just in the area…?”
Jackson leaned closer to the window for a better view of the confrontation.
Rogers’s voice boomed again. “I’m an officer of law in this city, and I go where I please.” Rogers turned away and observed the corpse, placing his finger under Glenway’s chin for the pulse. Then he put his finger on the patch of bloody hair and lifted Glenway’s collar to see the bruises. He shook his head and then opened his cell phone and began speaking. “This is Lieutenant Rogers. I need three units at the six hundred block of Royal Street at the place called Glenway’s Gallery. Suspicious death of owner Glenway Gilbert: Caucasian male, late fifties, red hair, possible trauma to person including contusion on skull. Units, please respond.”
Rogers continued studying the corpse. Glenway’s legs were lying flat against the futon with his lifeless right hand touching the floor. “Was this mess here when you arrived?”
Neil didn’t respond.
“Hey, Ned or whatever your name is…you hear me?” The lieutenant squinted at Glenway’s pockets and his eyes got big. He stomped a few steps closer to the body. “Hey, Ned, what the hell’s wrong with you? You were talking like a politician a minute ago.” Rogers turned around, but Neil had left the enclosure and was running past Jackson. Rogers elbowed his way to the main studio space that held the empty easel and the desk. He kicked the duffel bag he’d thrown in the corner and yelled, “Hey, hey, fellow.” No one answered. Rogers stomped on an overturned easel, sending the splintered pieces flying toward the studio’s entrance. “Sonuvabitch.”
Three
In the car Jackson accelerated down the road, leaving Neil to follow in his own car. With Billy, Imogene, and Goose in the back seat, Jackson passed the great circle with the statue of a general and headed uptown on St. Charles.
Billy fussed at his mom. “No, you didn’t get those pralines in Mississippi, Mama. You got them in Louisiana, didn’t you? In New Orleans, on Royal Street, at Glenway Gilbert’s studio.” Billy grabbed the wrapper. “Lena’s Place. Hmm, Lena’s Place. Why does that sound familiar?”
Jackson looked at his partner. “Isn’t that next to Neil and Allen’s house? Of course it is. She makes the pralines Neil always gives us.”
Billy prepared his sugar monitor as he scolded his mother. “You’ve eaten two. You better not eat another.” He held his hand out for Imogene to pass him the pralines she had in her white-knuckled grasp. Jackson fastened the rearview mirror on her and watched as she slipped two of the confections in her pocket along with a scribbled note from the box, and handed the rest to the front seat.
“I wouldn’t know how to breathe if y’all wadn’t here.” She sighed.
After Billy made her stick out her finger to be pricked for a blood sugar test, she lifted her white-rimmed sunglasses on her forehead and removed the note from her pocket carefully, so as not to crinkle the paper and draw even more attention to her discovery. Jackson saw her reading the note to herself. She mouthed the words, “Don’t let these get stale, baby. If not for you, I wouldn’t have no shop for ’em. I owe you, Glenway. I won’t never forget. Love, Lena.” Imogene squinted and read it again. The paper crackled in her hand. Billy turned around abruptly, his blond hair falling in his eyes, and asked what she had in her hand.
“Nothing, son. Just a little note.”
“Let me see it, Mother.” He held out his hand.
“Naw, this here’s mine, and you need to turn around in your seat and show Jackson how to get to Neil’s.” As soon as he turned around, she stuffed the paper in her bra, where she kept several twenty-dollar bills, which she thought she was concealing from the boys.
They heard the sound of a horn behind them. Imogene waved the car around. “Let ’em pass by us, Jackson…up here at the red light.” She couldn’t turn her head completely because she had lost her full range of motion years before. The horn blasted again.
“Dear God, what’s he want?” Imogene asked. “Y’all let him by, then.” She put her sunglasses back on to cover her eyes. The honks kept coming. “Hey, Jackson, just pull over. God knows I don’t wanna be kilt down here.”
Imogene in New Orleans Page 2
