Fairbanks, Nancy

by Crime Brulee (lit)

  My next serious stop was at the mask table. Now, very few people actually need a mask, but these were so exotic. Of course, I realized that they weren't as gorgeous as some I'd seen in a Mardi Gras shop during my French Quarter tour with Broder, but those had been very expensive. These, after a haggling session, cost me three dollars each. How could I resist? Especially the ones with feathers. I purchased an orange yellow model with fuzzy feathers surrounding sad, downturned eye slits; a round, red felt mouth decorated with tiny black feathers; and black and yellow feathers trail­ing down below the mouth. Then I chose a model with red sequins around the eyes and a veritable plume of black feathers shooting up above the head, and last, my favorite, the gorgeous green mask with blue-eyed peacock feathers in an elaborate crown.

  I wasn't convinced that I could get them home on the plane in mint condition, and I didn't know what I'd do with them once I got home. It's not as if I attend any masked balls or would feel comfortable with feathers tickling my face and neck all evening. Nonetheless, I was inordinately pleased with my under-ten-dollar collection of masks, so pleased that I wondered if El Paso had flea markets. I'd never pa­tronized one before.

  Of course, an El Paso flea market probably sold pinatas and Mexican pottery, and I had no need for a pinata and was afraid of Mexican pottery, having once read about a Califor­nia family who contracted lead poisoning from a glazed juice set that they purchased in Tijuana. Because of Jason's research interests, I'm always on the lookout for unusual news stories about toxins.

  With my pillboxes in my purse and my masks in a plas­tic bag, I set off toward Jackson Square thinking of lunch. But where? I sat down on a bench and studied my From-mer's. Should I try The Gumbo Shop on Saint Peter Street? Or Saint Ann's Cafe" and Deli on Dauphine, an establishment reputed to have saved the sanity of a person just moving into town? I could use some psychic comfort, I decided, if I could find the place. I thumbed through to a map, pink and white with black lines, and looked for Dauphine. Ah, there it was. Decatur (where I was), Chartres, Royal, Bourbon, then Dauphine. Now where did Saint Ann cross Dauphine?

  "Are you lost, my chile?"

  I looked up to see a priest with a tanned, somewhat weathered face and reddish gray hair ringing a bald head. He was smiling at me and wearing a black ... frock? What does one call a skirted priest's garment? Maybe he was a monk. But the gown had a high clerical collar. "I'm looking for the Saint Ann's Cafe, Father," I replied. If he was a monk, I sup­posed he'd tell me.

  "It's right on da way to mah parish," he said, "if you like to walk along wit me."

  How kind! And how charming! A Cajun priest! I recog­nized the accent. "Thank you, Father." I stood up and ac­companied him along Decatur. Soon we were zigzagging through streets and alleys, and I was completely lost. Still, once I got to my destination, I could study the map during lunch and would, no doubt, find my way back to the hotel without too much trouble. It wasn't as if I'd thought of a more useful way to spend the afternoon. If the police didn't turn up news of Julienne, I was stymied.

  As we entered yet another alley, this one quite messy, Father Claude was telling me an amusing story about a parish­ioner who had taken out a restraining order against the church because she was allergic to the flowers that custom­arily decorated the altar. "Downright disgustin' da way folks dump dere trash in dese alleys," said Father Claude, inter­rupting his own story. "Makes a mighty poor impression on our visitors."

  "Indeed," I concurred, for I had narrowly avoided trip­ping over a wooden box from which spilled a few remaining salad leaves—arugulla, I believe. He had to take my arm to keep me from falling.

  "Bettah we stop right heah," said Father Claude.

  "Oh, I'm fine," I replied. "I'll be more careful about—"

  "Right heah's a good place." He grasped my arm, quite hard actually, and then I felt something poking my chest, for he had swung me around and wore a very unpriestly look, a really sinister look.

  I gulped and glanced about desperately. The alley was de­serted. I peeked down at the object jammed against my breastbone. A gun! I was caught between astonishment and terror. "You're not a priest!" I exclaimed.

  "Got dat right, missy," he replied.

  It was then I noticed that the gun was, of all things, plas­tic. This faux priest was threatening me with a toy gun. That was really the last straw. I'd had quite enough of the crimi­nal element in New Orleans. Without a second thought, I snarled, "Idiot!" and swept my free hand—free except for the plastic bag of masks—up against his hand, the hand clutching the plastic gun. I was planning to tell him I had no intention of giving up my purse to a man wielding a toy, but the gun went off.

  Imagine my surprise and fright! Imagine his! He stag­gered back, blood streaming from his ear, an expression of astonishment and rage on his face. Then he ran away, leav­ing me in possession of the gun. I leaned over to pick it up and examine it. Could a plastic gun shoot real bullets? Close to tears and shaking like the off-balance ceiling fan in my family room, I tottered down toward the end of the alley where my would-be assailant had disappeared, Several tourists who saw me emerge with the gun in my hand ran away. I can't blame them. Then a policeman approached me, drawing his own weapon.

  "Oh, thank goodness!" I cried and fell, weeping, into his arms. It's a wonder we weren't both killed by mistake.

  29

  Father Claude's Ear

  Officer O'Brien disentangled himself, gingerly removed the plastic gun from my fist, and called for assistance. To me he said, "Ma'am, this may be the Big Easy, but it don't make us cops easy to see ladies runnin' out of alleys wavin' guns."

  "I was mugged," I sniffled and pulled out Lieutenant Boudreaux's handkerchief since Officer O'Brien didn't think to offer me one. Having had it laundered by the hotel at considerable expense, I hated to use it, but the lieutenant's clean handkerchief was the first thing that came to hand, and I was in desperate case.

  "Well, likely that's one sorry mugger," said the patrolman dryly. "You got a permit for this here weapon, ma'am?"

  "Of course not. It's not my gun." I gave my tear-filled eyes one last swipe, blew my nose, and stuffed the handker­chief into my raincoat pocket. "Shouldn't you put it into a baggie or something? Since it belonged to the mugger, it may still have his fingerprints on it."

  Officer O'Brien evidently didn't have an evidence bag on him. Instead, he appropriated my mask bag and stuck the plastic gun in that. Of course, I protested because I didn't think having a weapon, even a plastic one, dropped in among the feathers would do them any good.

  At that moment, a patrol car pulled up beside us, and Officer O'Brien murmured to the two men who climbed out, "Female wavin' a handgun on the street. Claims she was mugged an' disarmed the mugger."

  "I didn't exactly disarm him," I tried to explain as they helped me into the backseat of the car, putting a hand on top of my head just as I'd seen it done to suspects on television. Officer O'Brien got in back with me while the other two took their places in the front seat. Because they had my mask bag, I leaned forward and knocked on the screen to get their attention. "Could you please place that gun in an offi­cial police evidence container before it damages the sou­venirs I bought at the flea market?" I requested, feeling considerably calmer and much safer now that I was under the protection of the police.

  After leaning back, taking a deep breath, and trying to get comfortable on the rather lumpy seat, I turned to Officer O'Brien. "Are we going to the Vieux Carre substation?" I asked.

  "You been there before?"

  "Several times"

  "I'll bet," said the officer who was holding my mask bag and searching the glove compartment, presumably for an ev­idence container. These policemen did not seem to be very well equipped. It occurred to me that we needed an evidence team to take care of the mugger's gun, but I'd never seen a crime-scene van on the streets of New Orleans, although one can hardly watch ten minutes of a television police drama without observing one. In this case, it would seem tha
t life did not imitate fiction.

  We arrived under the familiar portico in no time and all climbed out, Officer O'Brien assisting me, as if I couldn't get out of a car on my own. Perhaps it was the Southern-gentleman training. Lieutenant Boudreaux had always been very gallant. I nodded to the sarcastic desk sergeant as we passed through the reception area and made our way to a small room where I was left after Officer O'Brien excused himself. I couldn't help noticing that he locked the door behind him, almost as if I was a prisoner. And they had not re­turned my masks.

  I must have waited five minutes or more, staring at the peeling walls of the little room and trying not to notice that some very unacceptable phrases had been scratched on the table at which I sat. Then a black man in civilian clothes un­locked the door and took a seat across the table from me. He was accompanied by Officer O'Brien, who introduced him as Detective Rosie Mannifill. Rosie? What a strange name for a man. Perhaps his mother had named him after a very large football player named Rosie.

  Jason, over the years, has watched some professional football on television, so I pick up a few names as I pass through the family room. Rosie Greer was one of those names, although I couldn't say what position he played, or plays, or for what team. The teams seem to proliferate like rabbits. Who but an ardent fan can keep track of their names? In fact, I may have heard the name Rosie when I was living at home. Mr. Delacroix watched football. Of course, my father didn't. I introduced myself to the detec­tive and offered to shake his hand. He wrote down my name.

  "O'Brien here says you told him you was mugged."

  "Well, I suppose that would be the word for it," I agreed. "The man grabbed my arm and shoved his gun against my chest."

  "An' you disarmed him?"

  I thought about Detective MannifilFs phrasing. "I wouldn't put it quite that way, Detective. You see, when I realized that the gun was plastic, I thought that he was trying to steal my handbag by threatening me with a toy. After all, who ever heard of a plastic gun?"

  "Anyone who knows anything about guns," said Detec­tive Mannifill. "I got one myself."

  "You do? Don't you consider it dangerous?"

  "Dangerous as any gun, ma'am."

  "I mean especially dangerous. When I tried to knock it out of his hand in a fit of pique, the mugger's weapon went off. It probably exploded. Western history, when untram-meled by the romantic myths about gunfighters, tells us that weapons misfired or exploded as often as not. And cannon explosions in earlier centuries ..." I could see the detec­tive's eyes glaze over and had to presume that his interest in history, even the history of firearms, about which I am not really an expert, was minimal. "At any rate," I resumed, "whatever happened, I certainly heard the explosion, and his ear bled copiously."

  "You shot the mugger?" Detective Mannifill now looked as if he didn't believe me.

  "Not in the sense that I pulled the trigger. I just gave his hand a sharp upward blow. However, he may well have been shot. Perhaps you should call local hospitals to check for someone missing an ear, or part of one." I thought for a mo­ment. "And you'll want to check for fingerprints. Mine will only be on the barrel. If the mugger is a career criminal, no doubt his fingerprints will be on file."

  Mannifill turned to O'Brien. "She was running out of the alley carrying the gun by the barrel?"

  "Well... yeah," O'Brien admitted.

  The detective rose and started to leave the room, pre­sumably to call hospitals and ask for fingerprint experts. I called after him, "I would like to have my plastic bag with the masks back." He didn't reply, so I turned to Officer O'Brien and remarked, "I bought some charming feathered masks at the flea market."

  "Yeah, my wife likes them. She got my little girls some for Halloween."

  "Oh, they must have looked adorable. How old are they?"

  Officer O'Brien and I were discussing Halloween cos­tumes favored by little girls when the detective returned and sat down. "So maybe you could describe this mugger, Miz Blue," he suggested.

  "He looked like a priest."

  Both men stared at me.

  "Well, I'm not saying he was one," I amended defen­sively. "But he was wearing one of those ankle-length black gowns with the traditional clerical collar and—" I stopped to picture him. "—and he had reddish gray hair sprouting out around a bald .head."

  "Anything else?" asked the detective. He was taking more notes.

  "He offered to show me the way to Saint Ann's Cafe and Deli on Dauphine Street. Naturally, I didn't hesitate to ac­cept help from a priest. I mean, one doesn't really expect to be mugged by a priest, does one?"

  "Where did the mugging occur?"

  "In the alley. I have no idea which one, but Officer O'Brien should be able to tell you that. In fact—" I turned to the patrolman. "—you may have seen him running out of the alley. He was ahead of me."

  O'Brien shook his head. "Didn't see no priests with bloody ears." He told the detective where he had first seen me, gun in hand.

  "Anything else?" asked Detective Mannifill.

  "He was about my height, five-six, and had olive skin, rather leathery, as if he'd spent a lot of time in the sun with­out using sunscreen." The detective raised his eyebrows. "I hope you don't think that you're safe from skin cancer be­cause you're black," I cautioned him.

  He scowled at me. "Anything else?" he prodded.

  "He told me that one of his parishioners had asked for a restraining order against the altar flowers in his church. That was just before he grabbed me."

  "Courts don't issue restraining orders against flowers," said the detective. "Anything else?"

  What an impatient man! I searched my mind. "Only that he introduced himself as Father Claude."

  "Well, shit," said Detective Mannifill. I gave him a dis­approving look, but he didn't apologize for his language.

  "Since when is Father Claude mugging tourists?" He said this to Officer O'Brien, not to me.

  At this point in what I could now see was an interroga­tion, Lieutenant Boudreaux entered the tiny room, com­pletely filling up the last bit of space.

  "Good afternoon, Lieutenant," I said. "I had your hand­kerchief laundered, but unfortunately, I've just had a very trying experience and had to use it again. However, I promise to get it rewashed and ironed, and this time I won't cry on it."

  "Don't give it a thought, Miz Blue," he replied gra­ciously. "My mama provides 'em by the dozen. Hear tell, you got mugged."

  "By Father Claude," said Mannifill.

  "Doesn't sound like his usual MO, muggin' tourists."

  "Had him a Clock, one a them fancy plastic models," O'Brien chimed in.

  Lieutenant Boudreaux looked worried. "Seems to me you're jus' gettin' more than your fair share of criminal at­tention, Miz Blue. You got any enemies out there? Anyone might have followed you from home with evil intent?"

  "Heavens no, Lieutenant. I'm a faculty wife. And a food writer."

  "Maybe she give some chef a bad review, an' he put a hit out on her," said O'Brien facetiously. In response, he got a frown from the lieutenant.

  "When were you plannin' on goin' back home, ma'am?" the lieutenant asked.

  "Tomorrow, I suppose. Have you heard anything about Julienne?" He shook his head. "Or identified that poor woman in the morgue?" Again he shook his head.

  How could I go home tomorrow when I didn't know what had happened to my dearest friend? "I just don't know what to do."

  "Well, one thing you can't do, ma'am, is leave New Or­leans until we get this matter cleared up," cautioned Detec­tive Mannifill.

  "Are you saying I'm a suspect of some kind?" I asked in­dignantly. "I believe that I am the victim in this incident."

  "Sure looks that way, Miz Blue," the lieutenant agreed, "but until we catch up with Father Claude—"

  "Like that's gonna happen," muttered O'Brien.

  "An' we're sure the man with the ear injury's not gonna file charges against you," Mannifill added.

  "But that would be outrageous, D
etective. I didn't pull the trigger of his gun. I simply—"

  "You never read about any a these burglars who wanna file charges when the homeowner catches 'em in the house an' shoots 'em?" asked O'Brien.

  "I believe these two incidents would not be at all compa­rable," I said stiffly.

  "An' you'd be right, Miz Blue," said the lieutenant sooth­ingly. "So we'll let you know as soon as we catch the mug­ger or the evidence exonerates you."

  "Oh well, that's all right then." The evidence could hardly fail to exonerate me. One can't shoot another person by holding the barrel of the gun. So unless Officer O'Brien's careless handling of the weapon in question had destroyed fingerprints, or contact with feathers had brushed away those little whorls—

  Detective Mannifill cleared his throat to get my attention. "If you'll just write down your local address and phone number, we—"

  "We got it, Rosie," said the lieutenant. "Miz Blue is by way of becomin' a daily visitor here." He turned to me. "Miz Blue, Ah'm gonna send you home in a patrol car, an' Ah hope this time you'll jus' stay in your hotel room with the door locked until it's time to go catch your plane. Ah'd be mighty relieved to hear you promise me that's jus' what you plan to do."

  I smiled at him and replied that my plans included a nice nap in my room and dinner at some excellent New Orleans restaurant with my husband and at least four friends. He seemed to find that acceptable. They fingerprinted me for elimination purposes with respect to the plastic gun, gave back my plastic bag with the three masks, and drove me to the hotel. En route, I was pleased to discover that the yellow, orange and black mask, my least favorite of the three, was the only one crushed by Father Claude's weapon.

  30

  The Helpful Sibling

  How in the world would I explain to Jason why I couldn't leave New Orleans tomorrow as planned? He had to get back to the university. Should I need to do any further re­search, we had planned to return here during the next vaca­tion. Now I'd have to tell him about Father Claude with his gun pressed against my breastbone and my mistaken con­viction that it was a toy weapon. Instead of Father Claude losing his ear, I could just as well have been killed myself. And now I might be charged with—what? Assault with a deadly weapon? Counterassault with the assailant's deadly weapon? That certainly didn't seem fair.