Kiss

by John Lutz

  He called Kemper Management and got the address of the Williams house on Naval by pretending to be a potential buyer of the property. Kemper Management also sold real estate, Carver was told, and would have the listing on the Williams house when and if the heirs decided to put it on the market.

  The agent asked if he could meet Carver at the house, but Carver told him he wanted only to drive past and look the place over from the outside before thinking more about an offer. The agent didn’t ask Carver how he knew the property was managed by Kemper and might soon be for sale; he must have assumed Carver was a speculator with a running knowledge of such things who used the obituary pages as guides to potential cheap property purchases from heirs who usually didn’t mind taking several thousand dollars under market value. The difference in sale and asking price was divided evenly among the heirs and made little difference to them individually, and it eliminated the problem of keeping the property on the market for months while it ate up maintenance and interest money. Edwina had swung some deals like that for sellers in much the same position as the Williams heirs.

  The Kemper agent had said the house was half a block off Saint Charles, a wide street upon which a streetcar line ran. Most of the homes in the vicinity of Naval Avenue and Saint Charles looked like plantation manor houses in their reincarnations of sumptuousness. Only a few were what might be described as run-down. After what had apparently been a period of decline, this was again one of the better addresses in New Orleans.

  Carver waited for a green-and-red trolley to sway and clank past, then made a left turn onto Naval and drove slowly.

  The houses on Naval Avenue were somewhat smaller than on Saint Charles, but still impressive and expensive. Several of them were being refurbished and had skeletal, crude scaffolding erected beside them. Two homes in the middle of the block were in terrible disrepair. The nearest of these was the Williams house.

  Carver parked the Ford across the street, left the engine and air conditioner running, and looked closely at the house. It had to contain at least twenty rooms. The vast slate roof was broken by dormers and cupolas, and there was a wide, once elegant gallery porch that wrapped around the front and east side. Many of the spokes in the porch’s railing were missing or broken, and several separate entrances had been placed on the face of the house when it was divided into rental areas, without regard to architectural balance. The clapboard siding had been painted white long ago, but it was a mottled gray now and cracked and peeling.

  Most of the windows had yellow shades pulled all the way down against the heat. It gave the impression that there was no one inside, though Carver knew there probably was, Wanda Pichet might be home, in the corner of her past that Kearny had given her and that Kearny’s children would now force her to leave.

  The house was set well back from the street, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds. About twenty feet from the porch steps was a huge magnolia tree that shaded the front yard. It had to have been there when Kearny Williams and Wanda Pichet were children. Carver wondered if they’d played in its branches, hidden there together from the world.

  He’d seen enough. He put the Ford in gear and drove toward Kemper Management on Maitland Avenue.

  Carver explained to the receptionist at Kemper that he might be interested in a preliminary way in the Williams property; he wanted to talk to someone to get more information.

  The receptionist was a young man with a toned-down punk hairdo and a gold stud in his ear, wearing a white shirt and tie. He referred Carver to a Mr. Clyde Arlan, who appeared within a few minutes and smiled and shook hands and ushered Carver into a small, square office without a window. Carver again used the name Frank Carter.

  There was a brown-enameled steel desk with a glass top in the office, and two padded green chairs. On the wall was a large map of New Orleans with red dots plastered all over it. The dots were plastic or metal and stuck to the map in some way Carver couldn’t fathom; not pinned or taped. Glue, maybe? Magnetism? He assumed each dot represented property managed or listed by Kemper. On the opposite wall was a framed photo of Clyde Arlan posed formally with a pleasant-faced, plump woman and two preschool children who had blond hair and looked like identical twins.

  “Nice family,” Carver said, lowering himself into one of the padded chairs.

  Arlan grinned. He was in his mid-thirties, skinny, and had thinning sandy hair that had probably started off blond like his kids’. “Thanks. Those husky twins are almost four now.” He sounded especially proud to have fathered twins, as if it made him twice the man. “You the fella I talked to earlier on the phone about the Williams place?” He had a syrupy southern accent and made place two syllables.

  “Me,” Carver said. “I heard it’ll be on the market soon and wanted some information.”

  “Uh-huh. You an agent?”

  “Not actually. An agent here would handle the transaction if I decided to buy. Mind you, I’m not anywhere near making a decision. I mean, the property isn’t even on the market.”

  “It’ll be soon, though,” Clyde Arlan said. “Owner just died down in Florida and the heirs plan on selling it. It’s one of those rare old fine homes been in the same family for decades.”

  Rare old fine homes. Carver liked that. “You sure about them planning to sell?”

  “Uh-huh. One of them told me so just yesterday. We’ve got instructions to contract some work on the place to make it presentable for market, bring it up to code, then list it soon as the will’s probated.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Arlan shrugged. “Depends on the will.”

  “Is there a will?”

  “Well, nobody seems quite sure. But one way or another, the family’ll inherit and they do intend to sell. We’ve managed the property for the last ten years. Some of the rent money went to support the owner at a retirement home down in Florida. The rest of it went into upkeep.”

  “Any liens against the place?”

  “There’s a second mortgage of twenty-five thousand, but that’s minuscule compared to how much the property’s worth. Woulda been sold a long time ago, only it had sentimental value for the owner.”

  “What’ll the asking price be?”

  Arlan flashed a cagey smile. He was trying to grow a mustache, Carver noticed. Just a shadow on his upper lip now. “Price hasn’t been talked about yet. But in that area, half a block off Saint Charles, and with that big lot, it won’t be cheap. It’s prime property. You know that, I’m sure.”

  “Last thing I want is to seem nosy,” Carver said, “but which of the heirs will be handling the sale? I mean, which of them contacted you? I’d like to talk to him myself, just to be assured that when the time comes they’ll be open to an offer. Save everybody some wheel spinning.”

  Arlan wasn’t sure he should give out that information. On the other hand, there was no point in sabotaging a possible deal. The wife and twins stared trustingly at him from the framed photograph.

  “The heirs’ names were in the paper,” Carver pointed out. “All I’m asking is you save me some time. I’ll wait a decent interval, then go to the executor or the one handling matters and we’ll talk.”

  “Guess there wouldn’t be any harm,” Arlan said. “The one that came here yesterday wasn’t a man, though, it was Mrs. Melba Lipp, the deceased’s daughter. There’s two kids, a son and a daughter. The mother’s dead.”

  “How come they’re so eager to sell?” Carver asked.

  “Don’t know that they are all that eager.” Salesman talk. Mrs. Lipp mighta just been in the neighborhood, figured she’d drop in and let us know the plans for the house.”

  “I mean, the father isn’t even buried yet.”

  “They got a need for the money, I suppose. Mrs. Lipp and her husband own a lounge down in the Quarter, Melba’s Place, and she’s been here before trying to borrow money against the property to put into the business. We had to explain we couldn’t do that, even if we would like to help them get into the black.�
� Arlan stared at his fingertips for a few seconds and tapped them on the desk, as if to make sure they still worked. “It’s not exactly right I should be telling you this, but I don’t want you going and putting your investment dollars elsewhere thinking the Williams place might not really be listed. It’ll be for sale and I’ll be the listing agent.”

  “You know for a fact the lounge is in financial trouble?”

  Arlan frowned. “I’d better not say any more about that. You want to leave me your card or phone number, so I can reach you when the property goes on the market?”

  “I’ll get in touch with you, Mr. Arlan.” Carver stood up and they shook hands. “Thanks for your help. Everything you told me about the Williams family will stay confidential, and I promise if I do decide to make an offer you’ll be the sales agent.”

  When an agent both listed and sold a property, it meant he didn’t split the commission. The frown left Arlan’s face and he was smiling when he showed Carver out. It was the same smile as when he’d ushered him into the office.

  As he drove away in the Ford, Carver congratulated himself on being convincing. If he’d fooled Arlan as thoroughly as he thought, he owed his success to Edwina, who liked to talk about her work.

  He glanced at his watch and saw that it was ten o’clock. They’d he holding a service and interring Kearny Williams in the family crypt about now. Carver knew they didn’t bury people in New Orleans, because of the swampy soil and grisly lessons learned long ago.

  Jack and Melba Lipp would be at Kearny’s funeral, which meant Carver could go to their lounge in the French Quarter and not worry about being recognized by anyone from last night at the mortuary.

  The lounge might be open, but it was too early for serious drinking. Too early to listen to jazz.

  Maybe a cup of coffee and some answers.

  21

  MELBA’S PLACE IN THE French Quarter was on Dumaine, incongruously tucked between a musty-looking used-book store and an antiques shop. It wasn’t a jazz club, as Carver had been told; it was a narrow lounge with no room for a band to set up and play. There was a long bar running front to back along one wall, and space for only a single row of small tables opposite. Behind the bar and shelves of bottles on the wall was a mirror that extended to the ceiling. Carver guessed the idea was to make Melba’s Place seem more spacious. All of this he had to observe through the front window, because Melba’s Place was closed and the lettering on the door said it wouldn’t open until five that evening. The Vieux Carré, as the French Quarter was sometimes known, and Melba’s customers, thrived on night air.

  There was shade on the narrow streets of the Quarter, providing a modicum of shelter from the glare and heat, so Carver walked around for a while, until he found a restaurant at the corner of Royal and Saint Philip.

  He had an early lunch of blackened redfish and Dixie beer while he listened to a street musician play beautiful clarinet. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon. Maybe this was why they called New Orleans the Big Easy.

  Finally the clarinet player moved on. Carver had a second cup of rich black coffee, then made his way back to the Belle Grande.

  He was tired. He hadn’t walked all that far, but the cane had been tricky on the Quarter’s roughly paved streets and sidewalks, and the day was heating up fast.

  When he reached his room, he lay down for a while on the bed, then he got restless and went into the bathroom and ran cold water over his wrists. The tanned face in the mirror above the basin looked back at him grimly and admonishingly, as if to say there was no point in wasting time until Melba’s Place opened; you’re a detective, so detect. Face had a point.

  Carver rode one of the rickety elevators downstairs and walked through the lobby to the street, then down the block to where he’d parked the Ford.

  He drove to the Williams house and limped up on the porch. No one objected but some crickets concealed in the weeds.

  The house was in even worse shape than it had seemed from across the street. It probably hadn’t been painted in decades, and some of the planks in the porch floor were rotted all the way through. A fetid odor of decay lay in the shadows beneath the sagging roof. Carver watched a large black waterbug drag itself across the porch, seeking shelter and shadow, and disappear into the darkness of one of the rotted fissures.

  Wanda Pichet’s name wasn’t on any of the mailboxes, but a painted wooden arrow read “Pichet Residence” and pointed toward the near side of the house.

  Carver went back down the hollow-sounding porch steps, cut across the hard lawn, and found a stepping-stone path to a door beneath a rusted metal awning.

  Wanda’s name was crudely printed with red marking pen on a black metal mailbox. Carver rang the doorbell but got no answer. He knocked loudly, waited almost five minutes, then knocked again.

  He was sure he’d heard someone moving inside the house—a shuffling noise and the faint groan of a floorboard. Furtive sounds. Wanda Pichet was home but chose not to come to the door. Judicious noninvolvement was the only control she had in life.

  Finally Carver decided there was nothing he could do about that, and he went back across the street to the Ford. As he was driving away he was sure he glimpsed a pinched, dark face at one of the upstairs windows.

  He braked the car suddenly and looked more carefully, straining his neck to peer upward from the low seat.

  The yellowed shade was back in place, though swaying ever so slightly. The face was gone. Wanda had said she was done talking about Kearny Williams and apparently she’d meant it. Everything about her suggested she always meant what she said.

  Back in his room at the Belle Grande, Carver sat on the edge of the bed and dialed long-distance to Orlando. Desoto was in his office and got on the phone immediately.

  Carver told him where he was and why.

  “You learn anything other than Kearny Williams been put in the ground, amigo?”

  “Above the ground,” Carver corrected. “They don’t bury people here.”

  “Figure of speech. McGregor phoned me a couple hours ago.”

  “Pissed off, I guess.”

  “No, he was very friendly. Like a rattlesnake without a rattle. Said he’d keep me tapped in as he was informed. What a guy, eh?”

  “Yeah, he’s sure to be governor one of these days.”

  “Sacro Dios, Carver!” They both knew it was impossible. McGregor had a nose for other people’s weaknesses and there was no ceiling on his ambition.

  “There’s an old black woman here,” Carver said. “She was the daughter of the Williams’s maid and sort of grew up with Kearny. She could give me a better slant on the situation before Kearny’s death, only she won’t talk.”

  “Maid? Kearny Williams drove a truck. Didn’t figure to be from the kinda family had a maid.”

  “Old southern wealth,” Carver said. “The family lost most of it when Kearny was a kid, but the homestead’s still here in a prime area of New Orleans and worth a small fortune. Kearny was the owner of record, though he didn’t hold clear title. He’d borrowed against the place to foot the bill at Sunhaven, but the net value’s still up in six figures.”

  “So what’s it all mean, amigo?”

  “Can’t tell at this point. The money’ll go to Kearny’s two kids, a son and a daughter, who seem the kind that’ll diddle it away in no time.” Carver hesitated, then said, “Any family members profit big from Sam Cusanelli’s death?”

  Desoto answered in his detached cop’s voice. “I don’t think so. It’s something I’ll check.”

  “In a little while I’m going to a lounge owned by Kearny’s daughter and son-in-law; maybe I can get a better feel for things. Meantime, can you use your police contacts in Indianapolis and get me an address on a Linda Redmond? She was the social worker who handled Birdie Reeves’s case two years ago. Probably still with one of the agencies there.”

  Desoto said he could do that, and Carver gave him the Belle Grande phone number and his room extension. Said he’d be the
re later that evening.

  “This hotel where you’re staying—is it expensive?”

  “Expense is relative.”

  “You got a bathroom with running water?”

  “Sure; place even has windows that go up and down.”

  “I put a money order in the mail for you this morning.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Tell ’em that at the desk when you go to check out, amigo. I hired you. You need anything, you let me know.”

  Carver said, “Just Linda Redmond’s address,” and hung up.

  22

  THOUGH MELBA’S PLACE didn’t feature a live band, it had a ferocious sound system. Huge box speakers were mounted on all four walls, and B. B. King was plucking up a storm through them when Carver limped to the bar.

  It was only five-thirty, and there was one other customer, a skinny guy in Levi’s and one of those athlete’s shirts made of net from the chest down. There was a big red number 22 stenciled on the front of the shirt, which looked brand-new. Number 22 was seated at one of the tables near the back, reading a paperbound book.

  Carver mounted a stool near the front end of the long bar and watched the bartender amble toward him.

  He was a short man with military-cropped blond hair, a barrel chest, and crescent-shaped, friendly eyes. He had a beefy face with a reckless half smile pasted on it that Carver suspected was always there as a sort of mild defense. No matter what he was doing, he was having a hell of a good time, the smile proclaimed. It probably helped him to slip through life with a minimum of confrontation. Hard to imagine the man with that smile being duplicitous or angry; hard to imagine him without the smile. A tough marine drill instructor gone hopelessly good. Nice guy no matter what.

  “Not much happening here,” Carver remarked over the music.

  “Early yet. What can I getcha?”

  “Scotch. You Melba?” Carver was smiling as he asked.

  “Not me,” the bartender said. “I’m Jerry. But there’s a sure enough Melba owns Melba’s Place.” He poured some Usher’s into a glass.