Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  “Oh, okay. Anyway, she’s not your type.”

  “Straight women rarely are,” I replied.

  “So are you coming to dinner?” Danny said, not exactly changing the subject, but realigning it somewhat.

  “No, I think not. I hate sitting around with happily grinning couples. Besides that, I’d be a bad influence. Not to mention reawakening memories of my despised cousin Bayard.”

  “Okay,” Danny replied, not putting up much of a fight. “And cousin will do, you don’t need to keep repeating ‘despised.’”

  “That’s how I think of him. My ‘despised cousin’ is second nature by now. Like New with Orleans.”

  “If you insist. Call me if you change your mind about dinner.”

  “I’ll debate on it. Say hi to Elly for me.” Danny did, Elly hi-ed back, and we hung up.

  Then I called Ranson.

  “Back so soon?” she answered to my hello. “I thought I told you to take a leisurely world cruise.”

  “But, dear Joanne, the tickets you sent weren’t prepaid.”

  “Crummy government salary,” she answered. “You going to be at Danny’s Saturday night?”

  “Are you?”

  “Yes.”

  Now this was getting interesting. At one time Danny had tried to set me up with Ranson. Maybe I should let her succeed. I was beginning to think I could get into the long arms of the law being around me.

  “I haven’t decided,” I hedged.

  “Decide. Elly makes a great pecan pie and she’s promised us one. And I make the world’s best oyster sauce, which I’m bringing along with the oysters.”

  “Decision made. I love raw oysters.” Which I do. I could put up with despised Bayard for the time it takes me to eat an oyster cocktail. I guessed I could put up with his double for a few hours.

  “Good, I’ll see you there,” Ranson said, ringing off.

  Well, maybe I would go to this dinner. I called Danny back and told her that I’d heard rumors of oysters and pecan pie, and for those I could put up with a lot. She asked me to bring some appropriate music as my contribution to the evening. I agreed.

  So I had my Saturday night taken care of. (And, if I was lucky, my Sunday morning also). Now I just had to figure out how to pass the rest of the time until Monday, when I was going to go after Milo and his boss—the man who had ordered Barbara’s murder.

  It didn’t take much thought. There was still a lot of cleaning and repairing to be done at my apartment. Friday was spent waiting around for the glazier to show up and fix my windows. Friday night was the laundromat doing six loads of laundry, every washable piece of clothing that I owned except what I had on. Saturday I got serious and ruthless about my semi-organized piles. I saw patches of the floor that I hadn’t seen since I’d moved in. Then I went through my record and tape collection, trying to pick out ones that might be suitable and making sure that they were in one piece and hadn’t been victims of the vandalism.

  Then I had to find something to wear. I always hated this part. After a while spent looking at my closet and its newly washed clothes, I ended up in my best pair of jeans with a royal blue V-neck sweater. (I wondered if Ranson had ever noticed my tits.) Then I put on my jean jacket, gathered my records and tapes, and headed for Danny’s and Elly’s place.

  My car had been making odd noises and would probably have to go to the garage, but I didn’t want to worry about it now, so I took the bus.

  I was the first guest there, but public transportation will do that to you. Either too late or too early.

  Danny and Elly rented the bottom floor of a house. A male couple had the top floor. They had just moved in six months ago. When they decided that they were serious about each other, I guess. They had spent time and some money fixing it up and now had parties and barbecues in good weather to show it off.

  The first thing I noticed was two gorgeous pecan pies sitting on the sideboard. The second thing I noticed was that the big table had seven place settings. Uh-oh, had I blundered into a den of couples? Dens of iniquity, dens of thieves, anything bit a den of couples. I decided to wait until all the evidence had arrived before I got too perturbed.

  The kitchen emitted a bark. Not the kitchen really, but a dog out of my sight. Either that or Elly did very good animal imitations.

  I stuck my head in.

  “New family member?” I inquired.

  “Michele Knight, private eye, this is Beowulf, hound dog,” Elly introduced.

  “Half-hound,” Danny added. “Some mutt jumped Dad’s fence and got Jupiter pregnant. Since he couldn’t sell half-breeds…”

  “We took him in,” Elly finished. “We couldn’t pass up those pleading brown eyes.”

  “Hey, Beowulf, old boy,” I said, kneeling down to pet him. He wagged his tale in approval. He was a handsome dog, brown and white, with, as Elly had noted, deep, intelligent brown eyes.

  “He has been fascinated by the crabs,” Danny said.

  “A yet to be pinched fascination,” Elly added with a wry smile.

  “You are a pretty dog,” I told him as I stood back up.

  “Want one? Dad’s got two more left,” Danny offered.

  “No thanks. One cat is enough. Besides, you know my hours.”

  “Too well,” Danny replied archly.

  I went back into the living room and put on the Brandenburg Concertos to lend a cultured air to this affair. Danny nodded approval at my choice.

  The doorbell rang. Danny let in Ranson and a woman I guessed had to be Alexandra Sayers. Ranson waved at me and went into the kitchen with her oysters.

  “Do you two know each other?” Danny asked, looking at the two of us.

  “We’ve talked on the phone, I believe,” I replied.

  “Yes, we did. I’m so sorry we didn’t get there in time,” she answered.

  Alex Sayers was a good bit shorter than Ranson, with light brown hair, a few hardly noticeable freckles, and clear blue eyes. She wore glasses, the kind with a thin gold frame, which served to make her look intellectual. This woman had to be very smart to get to where she was. Women aren’t just handed positions of power in this city; even if “all” she was, was the Mayor’s Special Assistant on Arts and Culture, she still carried a good deal of clout.

  I knew that by “in time” she meant Barbara more than she meant me. I was glad that Barbara hadn’t been forgotten.

  “I don’t think I could do what you do,” she continued. “I would have died of fright down in that basement. Joanne drove me out there one day last week and showed it to me.”

  The grand tour. Ranson, you’re such a romantic.

  “Then it all evens out,” I said, “Because I don’t think I could do what you do. Always dressing up, sitting in meetings with men who make Genghis Khan look liberal. Good thing we each do what we do.”

  She laughed and agreed, then went into the kitchen to help Ranson make her wonderful oyster sauce.

  Yes, indeed, it appeared to be a den of couples that I was trapped in. I was badly outnumbered. And unless this dinner got a good deal more interesting than seemed possible at the moment, I was going to have to come up with some solitary way to spend Sunday. Danny could have mentioned this when she invited me. But I suspect her strategy was to force me to watch all these other couples being blissfully happy in the hopes that it would inspire me to heat up my search for Ms. Right. Wrong, Danny, I vowed. I decided to be subtly obnoxious. I found some Strauss waltzes and put them on. Nice and romantic for these couples.

  The doorbell rang and Cordelia and Thoreau were let in by Danny. We said hello and I was introduced to him. Danny opened a bottle of champagne and poured a glass for us all.

  “‘The Blue Danube,’ I believe,” Thoreau commented on the music. “Johann Strauss.”

  Well, he knew something about music, but not as much as he thought he did.

  “‘The Kaiser Waltz,’” I corrected. At least he had the composer right.

  “Are you sure?” he asked me.
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br />   “I’m positive it’s the ‘Kaiser (or Emperor) Waltz,’” I explained clearly, “because I used to listen to it all the time when I was younger and besides, it’s my record, so I do know what’s on it.”

  He also wore a reddish-colored shirt that didn’t go at all well with his complexion, just like my despised cousin Bayard.

  We finally settled the matter by taking the record off the turntable and looking at it.

  “They sound a lot alike,” was his only comment on being proven wrong.

  Only to an idiot, I thought. I put on a tape of Baroque trumpet concertos, hopefully all obscure enough not to provoke any controversy. Danny came around filling up champagne glasses, giving me a “behave” look as she went by.

  “Time to start the crabs,” she said, and she and Elly went back to the kitchen. Ranson and Alex drifted back out, setting an oyster cocktail at each place setting.

  “Mick, come in here,” Danny’s voice demanded.

  I went into the kitchen, wondering what I had done now. It wasn’t me, but an escaped crab that needed attending to. Crabs have to be kept alive until they’re cooked. There was a big washtub full of live crabs set on the counter next to the stove. One crab was putting up a fight. It had gotten away and scuttled across the floor into a corner and was daring all comers with two snapping pincers.

  Beowulf was fascinated by the waving claws. He started edging closer, sniffing at it with his unprotected nose. I suggested that someone put him out on the porch.

  “You don’t want to do that,” Elly said to him as she clipped his leash to his collar and led him out the back door. Danny followed with a bowl of food to keep him placated at being put out.

  Danny obviously expected me to catch the crab. Which I did. I used the point of my boot to spin it out of the corner, them I bent down and grabbed it just in front of its swimmers, where it couldn’t reach me with its claws. I did it one-handed, not to show off (not much), but because that was the way I had learned to catch crabs. Alas, poor crab. I dumped it into the pot of boiling water.

  “A real butch would have picked up the crab herself,” I said to Danny.

  For a reply, she handed me the crab tongs. I put them down on the counter, reached into the washtub with my hand, grabbed a crab, and dropped it into the pot.

  “You are insane, Mick,” Danny said, shaking her head at my impudence. “I’ll have Elly standing by with the first aid kit.”

  I grabbed another crab bare-handed and dumped it into the pot. Still shaking her head, Danny went back into the living room. Elly popped in and asked if I was doing okay. I said sure and waved her back out to her guests. I continued dumping crabs into the pot. I was down to my last crab, a big old one, with a barnacle growing on his shell. He was putting up a fight, waving and snipping his claws. I was trying to distract him with one hand so I could get the other hand behind him.

  “Why don’t you use the tongs?” Cordelia said. I hadn’t even noticed her. I wondered how long she had been standing there watching me.

  To prove her wrong I grabbed at him. Mr. Crab lunged up, narrowly missing my fingers with his pincers.

  “See,” she said.

  I grabbed again before Mr. Crab could lunge again. I got him and dumped him into the pot.

  “It’s not fair if you don’t give the crabs at least some chance for revenge,” I answered.

  “How much revenge did they get?” She took my hand and examined it.

  “None, this time,” I replied. Satisfied, she let go of my hand.

  “How is the rest of you? You should have those stitches taken out.”

  “I already took them out.”

  “By yourself?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I don’t charge much.”

  “Neither would I.”

  “But there’s always bus fare to where you are. I, on the other hand, am always where I am.”

  “Do you ever stop pretending to be a tough guy?” she asked.

  “Who says it’s pretense?” I countered.

  “I guess not,” she sighed. “How are your ribs?”

  “Fine,” I answered. The truth being fair to middling, but this was a party and as far as I was concerned, Dr. James was not on duty.

  I got the tongs and started pulling crabs out and putting them in a colander. Faster than boiling water I’m not.

  I heard Thoreau misnaming another piece of music. Maybe I should put on some Gregorian chants. That might stop him.

  “Pachelbel’s Canon for Three Trumpets and Strings,” I corrected out loud.

  “A tough guy who knows a lot about classical music? I can’t figure you out,” Cordelia said.

  “Maybe you should stop trying,” I replied as I pulled the last of the cooked crabs out of the boiling water. Then I walked around her to hold the crab-filled colander under cold running water. When I guessed they had been rinsed and cooled enough, I arranged them on the big platter that Danny had left for that purpose.

  “But isn’t that half the fun of being a complicated person? Making other people work to figure you out?”

  “Is it? I’d never given it much thought.”

  Cordelia started to reply, but Elly came into the kitchen.

  “Those crabs smell wonderful. I’m going to put the bread in to warm up and then we’ll be ready to eat,” Elly said.

  I picked up the heavy platter and carried it out to the table.

  “I’ve never had to clean crabs before,” Thoreau commented as I set the platter down.

  Undoubtedly because someone always did it for him while he was learning all he could about music, I noted in my usual charitable fashion.

  We started arranging ourselves at the table. Danny and Elly sat at the head and foot as the hosts. I sat in the chair to Danny’s left, on the side with three chairs. Ranson sat next to me. Good, that meant that I was surrounded by my allies. Or at least as close as I was going to get. Thoreau sat on the far side, the chair next to Elly. Then Alex sat down beside Ranson, leaving the chair opposite me empty.

  Elly entered, bringing the warm bread. Cordelia followed her and sat down across from me.

  I hoped the oysters and pecan pie were very good.

  Danny opened another bottle of champagne and passed it around.

  “Champagne and cracking crabs?” I protested. “It’s gauche not to drink beer.”

  “Help yourself, we’ve got plenty in the ’fridge,” Elly said.

  “I’m trying to impart a little class to the occasion,” Danny said.

  I stood up, shaking my head.

  “To everything there is a season, dear Danno, and the season for champagne and crabs is rare indeed,” I said, starting for the kitchen. “Anyone else?”

  “Yes, one for me,” Cordelia said.

  I went into the kitchen and got two beers and two mugs, so we wouldn’t have to be totally uncouth and drink it out of the bottle. I put one mug in front of Cordelia then expertly opened and poured a beer into the mug. My bartending experience comes in handy.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking up at me and smiling. I grinned back, then sat down and started cleaning crabs.

  I was beginning to like this woman too much. She can’t be that perfect, if she’s really going to marry that jerk, I told myself and concentrated on picking out crab meat.

  Shelling crabs requires a great deal of messy effort for a small amount of meat. I noticed that both Cordelia and Elly were trying to help Bayard—Thoreau, with his cleaning. He was being remarkably slow. Of course, I was not being very charitable. I had grown up cleaning crabs. I can remember my mother teaching me, so I must have been very young at my first crab cleaning.

  Alex and Ranson were doing respectably; Cordelia and Elly were bogged down with Thoreau. Danny and I were the fastest. We both had finished with five crabs when everyone else at the table was on their third or fourth.

  I got up to wash my hands. The tape ended and I put on some Gershwin. The crab stragglers could use some rhythm. I took another beer out of the r
efrigerator, and sat back down. Danny was being a good host and helping Cordelia and Bay—Thoreau catch up.

  “You’re fast,” said Ranson, struggling to get a claw broken open.

  “Practice,” I answered.

  “Did you work in a seafood factory or something?” Thoreau contributed. As if I had to spend eight hours a day at something to be able to do it so much better than he did.

  “No,” Danny answered for me. “Micky’s a bayou rat, just like me. Bayou St. Jack’s makes great crab pickers.”

  “You knew each other growing up?” Cordelia asked.

  “No,” I replied.

  Danny, being the perfect host, explained, “Although Micky, with a good suntan, is not that much lighter than I am, she’s still considered white. And that made a difference in what school we were sent to. She lived a few miles down the bayou from us, but we never met until we were both eighteen.”

  “The age of consent,” I added.

  “How did you meet?” Cordelia asked.

  “Ah caught the ’gators and she was skinnin’ ’em,” I replied. I didn’t really want to go into my past and was trying to avoid answering questions. There were a lot of gaps that I had never filled in, even to Danny. She gave me a quick kick under the table and a look that said no dyke humor in front of straight people. I decided to answer before Danny did, with her fondness for detail.

  “We went to school together,” I said.

  “High school?” Thoreau asked. “Of course, you were integrated by then. It was the seventies, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it was college,” Danny answered.

  “But I thought you went to Barnard?” Thoreau said to Danny.

  Open mouth, insert foot, Thoreau, old buddy. Of course, my despised cousin you-know-who also found it impossible to believe that someone like me could have gotten into a college like that. Micky, the almost illegitimate bayou rat, wasn’t supposed to be a success.

  “Yes, we went to college together and met on the streets of New York City,” Danny replied, carefully, clearly, to those who knew her well, annoyed.

  “Why didn’t you stay there?” Thoreau asked. “I’m here because of work, but I prefer the northeast.”

  “I got accepted at Tulane Law School,” replied Danny, the polite host.