"Like Ah said, Miz Blue, we don' know who it is. That's why we need identification. Probably someone who lives out in the bayous fell off a fishin' boat or a pier. Somethin' like that. Been in the water a while."
"I'll come."
"Oh, now, Miz Blue, Ah don' think you wanna—"
"Where?"
"Well, the morgue, but—"
"I'll take a taxi. Will a taxi driver know where the morgue is?"
"Yes, ma'am. Likely he will, but Ah don' think—"
'Thank you for calling, Lieutenant." I hung up. Oh lord, not Julienne, I prayed as I stuffed my feet into my shoes and grabbed my handbag. Not Julienne.
With a sick dread, I sat on a bench outside in the corridor, waiting for Lieutenant Boudreaux to appear and usher me into the morgue. A policeman and a man in white medical scrubs were smoking cigarettes ten feet down the hall and chatting.
"I don't get it," said the officer. "Why are they callin' it the roo morgue?"
"R-O-U-X. Like you start with for gumbo," said the pathologist or tech or whatever he was. "We've had one sous chef, one maitre d', and one waiter brought in in the same week."
"Yeah?" The cop frowned, puzzled.
"You never read Murders in the Rue Morgue!"
"I don' read much," said the cop. "It's a book about gumbo?"
"No, man, R-U-E in French means street."
"So?" responded the policeman. He blew a smoke ring and watched it drift away.
"It's a pun," I said sharply, wishing they'd stop talking. Instead, they both turned and stared at me.
"She's right," said the tech. "It's a kind of joke, you dummy."
"Who're you callin' a dummy?"
I turned my back on them as the argument escalated. Then the lieutenant arrived to rescue me from tasteless puns and try to talk me out of viewing the body, which he evidently hadn't seen himself. However, I insisted. I had to know one way or the other, so he escorted me, reluctantly, through the door and into a cold room where an incongruously merry-looking man, his round stomach ballooning in a pregnant mound under a white lab coat, awaited us by a steel table. Shivering, marginally comforted by the support of the lieutenant's warm hand at my elbow, I nodded to the morgue tech, or was he the coroner?
As he began to draw the sheet back, the lieutenant swore. I retched. Because the face was gone, shredded by monster teeth, while the victim's arm had been devoured entirely.
"Ah knew this wasn't a good idea," said Boudreaux, his hand tightening on my arm. "Slater, why don't you—"
But I couldn't wait. Tearing my arm away from the lieutenant's supportive grip, I dashed into the now-empty hall and turned left toward a rest room I had noticed as I came in. Unfortunately, it proved to be the men's room, but I had no time to observe the niceties of gender separation. I catapulted through the swinging door and vomited into the first available receptacle.
"Hey, lady!" cried the policeman who hadn't read Murders in the Rue Morgue. Before he protested, turned his back, and zipped up with frantic haste, he had been standing at the urinal next to me I retched again. And again, impervious to his demands that I leave the "little boy's room," as he put it. "Lady, Ah'm gonna arrest you. It ain't right for ladies to come in here. Jus' 'cause you're hungover, don' mean you kin—"
Hungover? I gave him an indignant look, staggered to the sink, and cupped my hands under the faucet, then lifted the water to rinse my mouth. By the time I had splashed water on my burning face, the second occupant of the men's room had thought better of arresting me and gone.
Could that have been Julienne on the table? I wondered, appalled, and leaned weakly against the grungy wall tiles. Possibly. The hair—it might have been Julienne's. I scrubbed the tears away from my eyes and walked slowly back to the morgue, where Boudreaux intercepted me at the door.
"Miz Blue, if you'd given me the chance, I'da told you what they told me; there's just not enough left to identify unless you know the lady real... real intimately. Maybe we can get a print from the right hand. Ah should never a let you corral me into—"
"I doubt that Julienne was ever fingerprinted," I replied. "And I can identify her." In my mind I replayed voices— Julienne's and mine—twelve years old, on a sleepover at her house, giggling and trying on each other's clothes.
"Look at that!" said Julienne, turning away for me and pointing unhappily at a light tan splotch just where her bottom rounded on the left side.
"It's so light you can hardly see it," I had protested. "Besides, nobody's ever going to see it except me ... and your mom, I guess."
"What about my husband when I get married?" Julienne wailed.
The idea of anyone, especially a male someone, ever seeing one's naked bottom was too much for my twelve-year-old mind; I had suggested we listen to records. But I could identify Julienne—by that birthmark she had so detested. I wondered, sadly, what Nils had thought of it.
Slipping past Lieutenant Boudreaux, I walked back to the steel table on which, I prayed, no light tan birthmark would be in evidence on the poor, mangled body that lay there. "Could you turn her over, please?" I asked the potbellied man in his spotless lab coat. How would I have felt, I wondered, had that coat been splashed with blood? It didn't bear thinking on. The body was horrifying enough.
"Ma'am, Ah don't think a nice lady like yourself oughta to be lookin' at the backside a this here—"
"Please," I said, voice wobbly but determined, "if we're going to find out who she is, or isn't—" which is what I devoutly hoped to ascertain, who she wasn't "—you're going to have to turn her over."
Looking resigned, Lieutenant Boudreaux gestured to the man, who then stripped back the sheet. I had to close my eyes. Could that be Julienne? I was unable to tell because the body had been unbearably savaged. Mr. Slater lifted and turned the body. Very gently. I liked him for that. It was touching that, in such a grisly profession, he had maintained his humanity. And then I gasped, because the left buttock, on which I had based my confident prediction of identification, was virtually gone, gnawed away. I turned, weeping, and the lieutenant led me from the cold room.
"We're runnin' a fingerprint check right now on APIS," he said consolingly. "Probably find out it's some woman been in prison for years an' drowned herself because she couldn't make it on the outside. Not much chance it's your friend."
"I suppose not," I said.
He handed me a clean linen handkerchief. It must be a Southern thing, I thought. Julienne had carried linen handkerchiefs, too, while most of us philistines just use Kleenex. At the thought of Julienne and her lace-edged handkerchiefs, I started to cry again and used the lieutenant's. Of course, it had no lace, but I did notice a B embroidered in the corner. And now, having shown so little self-control, I'd have to get it washed and ironed before Jason and I left New Orleans.
26
The Intrepid Gourmet
Lieutenant Boudreaux sent me back in a police car. Still sniffling into his handkerchief, I climbed out in front of the Hotel de la Poste, only to be confronted by Carlene, Broder, and my husband.
"You poor girl," Carlene cried and pulled me into a motherly embrace. "What happened? Were you arrested?"
The policeman jumped out of his front seat and said, "Here. What are you doing?" to Carlene. "This woman's under my protection."
Evidently he thought I was being attacked. How ironic that the New Orleans Police couldn't wait to protect me from a friend's hug but were never in sight when one of the many crazies in the city really was attacking me. I could certainly have used his help yesterday when that madman in the pickup truck tried to run me off a country road.
"Caro," Jason cried, "what are you doing in a police car, and why are you crying?"
"Get your hands off her," the officer said to Jason.
"He's my husband," I protested, fearing Jason's imminent arrest.
"Oh." The officer climbed into his patrol car immediately, saying, "I purely hate domestic disputes."
"What
dispute?" Jason asked, but the officer was already pulling away. My protection, needed or not, had been very short-lived.
"I've been to the morgue," I said, sopping up tears with Lieutenant Boudreaux's soggy handkerchief.
Jason and the McAvees looked stunned. I don't suppose any of them has ever been to a morgue. I certainly hadn't until today. "It was horrible."
"Julienne," said Broder. "Was it Julienne?"
"I don't know. I looked at the body, but I couldn't tell."
"How could you not tell?" Carlene asked reasonably. Although Broder seemed to be giving in to fear for our friend, Carlene remained calm. "Either it was Julienne, or it wasn't."
"The woman had been ... been ... killed by an alligator." More tears. I couldn't seem to stem the flow.
"Oh, sweetheart." Jason put his arms around me, although this conversation was playing out on the street in front of the hotel, and Jason usually saved demonstrations of affection for private moments, as you'd expect of a long-married scientist with two more or less grown children. I cried some more, and he handed me a Kleenex, having failed to notice that I had a real handkerchief from Lieutenant Boudreaux.
"She was ... was chewed up," I sobbed. "The woman in the morgue. But she had black hair. I think. It was muddy ... just like ... just like mine when I fell into the bayou." Before I could get any further with my description of the body I had gone to view, thunder rolled, drowning out conversation, and rain poured down as if dumped on us from buckets in the hands of angry rain gods. We all sprinted inside and dripped on the antiques in the lobby.
Carlene made me sit down, handed me another Kleenex, and said, "It wasn't Julienne," in a voice of absolute certainty. "Why would Julienne let herself be eaten by an alligator? She was a native of Louisiana. If anyone knows the danger of getting near an alligator, it's Julienne. She would never put herself in a position where an alligator could get anywhere near her."
"But—"
"You can take my word for it, Carolyn. She came to visit us one time and scared my children half to death with alligator tales. You never heard so much squealing and shrieking and giggling in your life. Children do love gore. Don't you agree, Broder?"
"Well, they've grown out of that phase," he replied defensively.
"True, but the point of this story is that Julienne knows all about alligators and how to keep out of their way, so the woman you saw was not Julienne. Now . . ." Carlene, who had been sitting beside me, got up, pulling me with her. "Now we're all going to dinner and have a wonderful meal. You can write about every bite we put in our mouths."
"Why did you have to go to the morgue, Caro?" my husband asked. "Shouldn't Nils have been asked?"
"He was, but he's out getting drunk," I replied, beginning to feel angry. There's nothing like a good gush of indignation to dry up one's tears.
"Drunk!" Broder frowned disapprovingly. "Nils's conduct throughout this whole episode has been reprehensible. When a search for Julienne needed to be made through the dangerous streets of New Orleans, you and I had to take on that responsibility because Nils wouldn't. I think—"
"I think you're getting grouchy, love," said Carlene. "Is it the prospect of an expensive dinner? Or are you just hungry?"
"I'm getting tired of rich food," Broder admitted. "I'd like to eat some ordinary—" He paused, trying to think of what might be ordinary enough for a Midwesterner who had been subjected to years of oddball California cuisine and health food by his wife and who had now suffered through a week of French sauces and Cajun spices. "—some plain old steak and potatoes," he decided. "But I don't suppose steak and potatoes would do anything for Carolyn's book," he finished wistfully.
"On the contrary, I seem to remember... let me think ... there was a delicious-looking recipe for filets and mashed potatoes." Broder looked hopeful. "Let's go up to our room to dry off while I look it up." I knew Broder and Carlene were staying at a B & B on the edge of the Quarter, so it wouldn't be very convenient for them to return there before dinner.
"I like mashed potatoes," said Broder, as he and Carlene trailed us up to the room.
I found the recipe under an entry for the Pelican Club, filets mignons with shiitake mushrooms and Cabernet sauce and garlic mashed potatoes with roasted onions. It sounded perfect for a cold, rainy night. I didn't mention the mushrooms and Cabernet sauce or the garlic in the potatoes to Broder, who was busy peering at a map with Jason, looking for the address on Exchange Alley. Carlene was in the bathroom toweling off her longish gray-white hair, and I was calling to secure a reservation for four.
"Oh, I'm sorry, madam, but I'm afraid a reservation for this evening would be impossible," said the person who answered the telephone.
"What a shame," I replied. "I had wanted to include the Pelican Club in my book on eating in New Orleans, but I suppose I'll have to substitute some more accommodating restaurant."
There was a brief pause. "Is this a guide book?" asked the man.
"No, it's a—how should I describe it?—a book about food, New Orleans food. The manuscript is due at the publisher's in six months, and I am due home on Saturday, so I'll just have to skip the Pelican Club, although I did want to sample your filet with shiitake mushrooms."
"An excellent choice, madam. If you'll give me just a minute, I'll see if a table can't be found for your party."
"Oh, good!" I said breezily. "I think I'd prefer the front room, which I'm told is quite elegant, and I do want to look at the paintings. Do you have any of particular interest? That would make a nice addition to my description of the ambiance."
"We have some very fine pieces," I was assured. "Consigned from excellent galleries."
"I'm delighted to hear it." While the reservation person was getting me a reservation, I had to suppress an undignified impulse to giggle at my own temerity. A certain rather crude member of Jason's department would have said that I had "balls." In this case having balls proved to be an excellent thing. We got our reservation, passed around towels to sop up the results of the cloudburst that had caught us in the middle of my personal cloudburst, combed hair, refreshed lipstick, used the facilities, borrowed extra umbrellas from the hotel, and ventured outside again, maps in hand.
Jason and Broder argued amiably over whether we should turn right or left (Exchange Alley runs parallel between Chartres, our street, and Royal, the police station street). Jason won, and we turned left, finding the restaurant at the corner of Bienville and Exchange Alley. Having lost the route debate, Broder argued with his wife about whether they should order courses in addition to the filets and mashed potatoes. Broder was worried about the extra cost of desserts and appetizers.
"We'll skip the appetizers and share a dessert," I suggested. "They're supposed to make a marvelous profiterole. The pastries are served three to a plate, but maybe I can talk them into four," I said cheerfully. I had been thinking about Carlene's statement that Julienne would never have put herself in the path of a hungry alligator. That seemed a reasonable assumption to me.
"They're not going to make the dessert bigger just to accommodate us," Broder complained. "They'll want to sell us four desserts."
"If I talked them into giving us a reservation on short notice, I can talk them into providing one more little profite-role and four forks," I assured him. After all, I told myself, I was a food critic with "balls."
27
Filets Mignons with Shiitake
Mushrooms and Cabernet Sauce, and
Garlic Mashed Potatoes with Roasted
Onions
Somewhat the worse for rain, Jason, Broder, Carlene, and I arrived at the nineteenth-century townhouse in which the Pelican Club was housed. There we were greeted with deference and seated at an excellent table in the front room, which was as elegant as my guidebook had indicated. I felt a bit guilty at the thought of the party for whom the table had originally been designated, but goodness, academics aren't often treated like visiting royalty, so I de
cided to enjoy the windfall dropped in our laps by my new profession. Accordingly, I whipped out my new camera, purchased to replace the one that fell into the bayou. What an expensive trip this was turning out to be! Perhaps the new camera was tax deductible. While I took pictures, Carlene prowled the room looking at the paintings that were for sale. Other diners were staring at us, which was a bit embarrassing.
Then Carlene cried, "This one. I want to buy this one." It was a very pleasant, fuzzy picture with golden splashes slanting across the foreground. Broder, having leaned forward to see the price, gasped. "Now, love," Carlene chided exuberantly, "I have to have it. It looks just like a compound we're working on in the lab."
"Can't you just frame a picture from your electron microscope?" asked Broder, looking more and more alarmed.
"Broder McAvee, I make enough money that, for once in my life, I can afford to buy an oil painting that I like."
"Acrylic," murmured the female diner behind whose chair Carlene was standing.
"Especially one that looks just like the bioactive compound my team developed," Carlene continued. "Look, Jason. Doesn't that look like ..." She came out with some long string of chemical designations that I couldn't have deciphered or remembered if I were to be quizzed on them the next minute.
Jason obligingly leaned forward to look at the yellow pools of light in a shadowy field of sometimes-translucent blue and black. "Could be," he agreed. "Certainly there's carbon there."
His vague answer, the twinkle in his eye, and the hint of a grin behind his beard told me that he probably wasn't even familiar with her compound, much less in agreement on the biochemical significance of the painting, and even I knew that there was carbon everywhere.
"Ah hate to rain on your parade, ma'am," said the companion to the female diner who could tell acrylic from oil, "but that's an impressionist renderin' of a New Orleans street at night."
"Nonsense," said Carlene.
"Ah know the artist," said the man, offended at having his expertise ignored.
Fairbanks, Nancy Page 19
