3 Louisiana Lies

by Alison Golden

  “I don’t think this game is all that ethical,” George was saying to Nat.

  “Oh, lighten up!” Nat said with a laugh. “It’s just a game.”

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” said George, “although even games can be microcosms of reality. If we get used to cheating in a game, maybe then we’d think it acceptable…”

  “Stop!” Nat tapped him on the arm and then gave him a quick side hug. “Stop taking everything so seriously!”

  “Nat,” Roxy said, hearing her stomach growl, “what are we going to do for dinner? I made this gumbo for you and George but with the others coming over…”

  “I’m beat,” said Nat, “please don’t ask me to make anything.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Roxy. “I can’t see myself on my feet cooking up a pot of anything, either. What about takeout? Pizza?”

  “Pizza would be perfect,” said Nat. “What do you think, George?”

  “I think pizza sounds wonderful,” he said. “And totally against my diet principles that demand I eat healthy, natural, colorful food to feed my spirit. I’m playing Cheat and eating pizza. What a day!”

  Nat nodded. “Pizza’s colorful! And it has vegetables. Come on, you can’t be too strict with yourself all the time. Gotta let loose and have some fun, too! Besides this won’t be any old pizza. This will be New Orleans pizza. How about a thin crust topped with cured pork shoulder, caramelized onions, and marinated artichokes along with a NOLA craft beer?”

  “You’re right,” George said with a grin. “To celebrate Charles coming back.”

  “Keep those brandy punches flowing, Roxy!” said Nat, raising hers in the air. “Tonight’s going to be a good, good night!”

  Sage, Sam, and Elijah arrived together. Sage went upstairs to speak to Charles. Roxy ordered four large pizzas, with garlic bread and a portion of chicken wings on the side. She picked some chicken off the bone for Nefertiti. They played endless rounds of Cheat, which George became surprisingly good at, and when they had eaten and drunk enough, Nat gave them a slightly tipsy rendition of Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit.

  Gently, she sang them to sleep on the couches, feeling full and satisfied and warm. It was just what they all needed after a tough day, but as Roxy reflected as she leaned back, her head against Sam’s shoulder, her eyes closed as she listened to the slow, mellow lyrics that floated from Nat like sleepy smoke, they were still no closer to finding out who had killed Meredith Romanoff.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ANXIETY ABOUT MEREDITH’S murderer continuing to roam the streets niggled at Roxy when she woke the next morning. She lay in bed thinking, Nefertiti nestled in the crook of Roxy’s body as she lay curled up on her side. Roxy buried her hand in Nefertiti’s long white fur, feeling the scruff of her cat’s neck between her fingers, her fur tickling the back of her hand.

  “I have one job, Neffi, one important thing—I have to make good on my promise to Dr. Jack. Even though he’s been released, I have a feeling that Detective Johnson will still be on his back. Our favorite policeman will be trying ever harder to gather evidence against him, I’m sure of it.” Neffi looked up at Roxy and gave a big yawn, her small, pink tongue curling outward sensuously.

  Roxy carried on kneading her fur and talking. “When I make a promise, I do my best to follow through, it’s only right. So today, I must take things up a notch. I have to find out who really killed Meredith. And that means I must speak to that scary businessman, Royston Lamontagne.” Roxy rolled on to her back and stared at her bedroom’s white stuccoed ceiling. “But not via that assistant of his. Perhaps Charles has his number. Meredith must have liaised with him directly at some point.”

  Charles was already in the dining room when Roxy made her way down. He was at the window looking out over the cobbled street. He looked much better than he had the previous evening.

  “Good morning, Charles,” Roxy said softly, walking up to him and putting her hand gently on his arm. “How was your night?”

  Charles turned to smile down at her. He was a tall man, and Roxy was short. “Good morning, Roxy. I slept like a baby, thank you for asking. Sage performed some reiki on me, I believe that’s what she said it was, and I fell asleep partway through. When I woke up, she was gone, and it was morning. I feel like angels have been stitching me back together in my sleep.”

  Roxy smiled at the imagery. “That’s good. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”

  “I’ve been across the courtyard and had some coffee and a piping hot beignet with your friend, Elijah, already.” He patted his stomach. “It was just what I needed.”

  “Perfect.” Roxy hesitated as she attempted to formulate her request. “Honestly, Charles, I want to talk to Royston Lamontagne about…well, I want to talk to him. I was wondering if you had his number. And if you’d be willing to give it to me?”

  “Yes, I have it. Royston gave it to me after…well, you know. He told me to call if I needed anything.” Charles reached into his pocket for his phone before pausing, his head cocked on one side. “Roxy, are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to. It’s certainly not your job. And I’m not asking you to. If you want to help solve the case, you’re most welcome. I’m just concerned for you. This is a police job. It’s not for you.”

  “Oh!” Roxy wondered how he’d known why she wanted to talk to Lamontagne. “I’m fine with it, I am. Don’t worry about me. I’m tougher than I look. And for those moments when I fall, I have the best friends around me to pick me right back up again.”

  Charles smiled. “You’re a brave young woman, Roxy.”

  She smiled back. “No, not really. It’s simply that I believe very much in justice.”

  “That’s very admirable of you. Let me get Mr. Lamontagne’s number.” He scrolled through his contacts.

  Roxy tapped the number into her phone. “Thank you so much, Charles.”

  Charles touched her gently on the arm and looked into her eyes. “Thank you, Roxy. Thank you.”

  Roxy didn’t waste a moment. She hurried into the kitchen, fixed herself a coffee—she was too wired to eat—then headed into her office. Nefertiti was sitting in a box of printer paper grooming herself, but Roxy was so focused on what she was about to do, that she didn’t even notice her. Sitting at her desk, Roxy stared at her phone for a moment before confidently pressing the call button.

  Royston Lamontagne picked up within two rings. “Who’s this?” he demanded.

  “It’s Roxy Reinhardt, manager of the Funky Cat Inn.”

  “Who?”

  Roxy drew herself up and spoke a little louder. “Roxy Reinhardt, manager of…”

  “The Funky Cat Inn. Got it,” he said. “Yes. I’m not deaf. Have we met?”

  Roxy heard a small yip in the background. Lamontagne must have his little dog with him.

  “We have met, Mr. Lamontagne. I was in the room when Meredith Romanoff was shot dead.”

  “Oh! The small blonde? Or the one with the eye patch?”

  Roxy looked up. Unlike in her bedroom, the ceiling was wood-paneled and painted white. She pressed her lips together.

  “Are you the one who showed up to my office unannounced?” Royston said. There was another small yip. “Stop it, Fenton.”

  “Yes. Your assistant said to call to book an appointment, so I’m calling now. I want to talk to you…”

  “About what?”

  “I think it might be better to talk in person,” said Roxy.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I want to talk is all.”

  “I don’t do talking for no good reason.”

  “I wanted to see if you knew anything, about Meredith’s murder. If you had any information that might shed some light on who might have done it.”

  “If I did, I’d have given it to the police.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Look, I don’t have no time to entertain any amateurs. I have a large and demanding business
to run. Goodbye.” Lamontagne rang off.

  Roxy banged the palm of her hand on her desktop so suddenly that Nefertiti mewled loudly. She jumped out of the printer paper box and ran from the room.

  “Neffi! Sorry!” Roxy called after her, but the cat was gone. Roxy half-rose from her chair to go after her when her phone rang again. It was Royston Lamontagne. Roxy snatched her phone up and banged the “accept call” button with the pad of her finger. “Yes?”

  “Meet me at the club tonight. XOXO. Frenchmen Street. Midnight. You’ve got five minutes.” The phone went dead.

  “Oh, oh, oh!” Roxy walked back and forth as she considered what had just happened and what it might mean before grabbing her phone and her bag and rushing over the street to Elijah’s Bakery.

  Elijah, dressed in a violet suit, met Roxy and Nat in the street between their two businesses. A black shirt, tie, and black, metal-tipped, winkle pickers completed his outfit. Roxy hadn’t known what to wear but had decided to glam it up. She wore a rainbow-sequined, bodycon dress with blue shoes and a matching clutch. Nat wore what comprised 98% of her wardrobe—a band t-shirt, black jeans, and boots. It was chilly, so she’d brought a man’s oversized jacket to keep herself warm while Roxy wore a shawl. It was 11 PM and the stars were bright. All three of them were in constant motion as they anticipated their night out.

  “Okay, sugars! Let’s be on our way,” Elijah cried, rubbing his hands together.

  “Where is this place, exactly? What is this place, Elijah?” Roxy had never been to a club in the city before. She had created all kinds of fantasies about XOXO in the hours since Royston Lamontagne had told her to meet him there.

  “It’s an underground jazz club. My friend Alphonse runs it,” Elijah said.

  “You really do know everyone involved in New Orleans nightlife, don’t you?” Nat said.

  Elijah shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THEY WALKED TO the end of the street and hailed a cab. Ten minutes later it pulled up at the corner of Frenchmen Street. The driver couldn’t get any closer to their destination. The way was barred by a band and their audience. A large number of musicians, Roxy counted twelve, were playing a combination of trumpets, trombones, clarinets, saxophones, and a set of bass drums. The loud, rhythmic jazz sounds from the impromptu curbside concert caused tourists, who had spread out across the street watching them, to dance, nod, and jiggle in time with the beat. Beyond them, clubs and stores were lit up in neon blue and yellow.

  After pausing to listen to the band for a while, Roxy, Elijah, and Nat made their way down toward the club, and as they did so, music poured out from the buildings on either side of the street every few yards.

  “Man, I can hear all kinds of music—jazz, blues, reggae, rock,” Nat said.

  “They play some of the best live music in the world on Frenchmen Street,” Elijah said. “I’m surprised you’ve never been down here before, Nat. This is your home, where your heart is.” They had to stop speaking for the moment as the sound from another roadside performance meant they couldn’t hear each other speak. A quartet of men in pork pie hats blasted out jazz music from a saxophone, clarinet, drum, and a piano—on wheels.

  “Oh, I don’t kn—whoa!” Nat swerved to avoid clashing with a troupe of hula-hoopers who were walking calmly down the street, flickering, lighted hula hoops spinning around their waists so fast they were a blur. To their right, a man stood reading poetry from a lectern. All around them, locals and sightseers milled, causing Roxy, Nat, and Elijah to slow their pace to that of the crowd even though they were anxious to go faster.

  “Wow, this is quite the place!” Roxy exclaimed. “It’s like Mardi Gras without the costumes.”

  “XOXO is just there,” Elijah called pointing to his right.

  Roxy looked over, but all she could see was a big sign draped across the railings of a balcony that announced a musical theatre production later in the month. “Really? Where do we go? It’s all dark.” Roxy looked up at the building Elijah had stopped in front of.

  “Not there, there,” Elijah was pointing to some steps to the left of the building. They led down to a door, outside of which a big, burly man stood, and from which bright lights, the sounds of people talking, or more accurately, shouting, and the lonely strains of a trumpet, could be heard. Elijah led them down the steps, spoke a few quiet words to the guy on the door, and then beckoned to his companions to follow him inside.

  When they opened the door that led into the cavernous space of the underground club—it was literally underground—an explosion of noise burst forth as a huge swell of chatter. The club was packed and the crowd seemed to heave as one. All ages mingled together, drinks in hand, half of them leaning in close to their companions so that they could converse with one another. It was dark except for the lights around the bar, the odd wall light, and spotlights pointing out from a stage in the corner.

  Elijah inched his way through the crowd to the bar, nodding occasionally, clasping the hand of one man in greeting, waving to several others. Behind him, trying to stay close, were Nat and Roxy. They clung onto each other as they used their combined body weight to force their way through the throng.

  Elijah leaned in to speak to the barman as he placed two cocktails and a beer on the counter. The barman pointed and Elijah looked over, nodding his thanks before taking the drinks and turning around just as Roxy and Nat reached him.

  “Here we go, ladies. Mojitos for you and me, Roxy, a beer for you, Nat.”

  “You know, I’m a little more sophisticated than I look,” Nat said tartly, taking her beer and giving it a swig in a fashion that disputed her statement. “A cocktail would have been fine.”

  “Where’s Royston Lamontagne? Does he have an office at the back?” Roxy shouted hopefully. The noise was deafening.

  “Oh no, this isn’t Royston’s club. He’s visiting tonight. Looking for new talent, I expect. It’s Karaoke night. Music promoters and record industry execs travel from all over to come here on Monday nights. Anyone can pick up the mic but this place is known for trying out up-and-comers who are hoping to get noticed. There’ll be some really good voices singing on that stage later.” Elijah pointed at the raised platform that was empty except for a mic stand and some speakers. Next to the stage was a piano and a drum kit. A sweaty man was weaving his way, hunched over, around the equipment, cable in one hand, a transformer in the other.

  “Elijah!”

  “Alphonse!” A slight, dark-haired man with skin that shone like spotlights in the dim light of the club embraced Elijah, slapping him on the shoulders, before standing back as best he could given the crush of the crowd. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re here for the music, man, a good time. We’re also looking for Royston Lamontagne. We were told he’d be here tonight. My friend here has a meeting with him.”

  “Really?” Alfonse swiveled to regard Roxy, looking her up and down. “Sing, do you?”

  “Oh, no,” Roxy gushed breathlessly. “I’m here about…something else. He told me to meet him at midnight.”

  Alfonse looked at his watch. “Yeah, he should be here soon. He comes most Mondays although he’s been telling me to get some better talent in or he might stop coming by. The ones we’ve had in lately haven’t interested him. I’ll keep my eye out and give you a wave when he arrives.”

  “Thanks, man,” Elijah said. The two men clasped hands before Alfonse was swallowed up by the crowd around him.

  Another voice cried out, “Elijah!” Elijah turned. There was a crash from the stage. Roxy and Nat looked over and when they looked back, Elijah had disappeared.

  “Now what?” Nat said, taking another swig of her beer. “Our connector and protector has gone.”

  “I guess we just wait for Lamontagne to appear. It’s just a few minutes to midnight. Not long now.”

  “Look over there, a table. Let’s get it, quick!” Roxy and Nat once again joined forces to shove their way through the
crowd and scrambled to reach the empty table like it was a deserted island in the middle of an ocean. They crashed down onto the banquette in relief.

  “Oh, but now I can’t see a thing!” Roxy cried. “I’m never going to be able to see Lamontagne when he arrives.”

  “Stand on the table!”

  “What? I can’t do that.”

  “Course you can. Come on, I’ll help you,” said Nat.

  And so, in her tight bodycon dress and her high heels, Roxy, helped by Nat, clambered onto the table to get a full view of the crowd and the door to the club. As she stood up, pulling down the skirt of her dress so that it reached her knees once more, she immediately spied the tall figure of Royston Lamontagne. He was standing in a corner near the bar. He looked exactly as he had at the séance. His suit was impeccable, his tie was thin and straight, and he continued to wear sunglasses despite the fact he was indoors and it was night-time. Under his arm was his tiny dog, Fenton. Lamontagne was talking to another, much shorter man whose rumpled shirt and rolled-up sleeves denoted sartorial credentials that were far less distinguished than his companion’s.

  “He’s there. I’m going in.” Roxy got down onto her knees and from there climbed from the table.

  “Well, I’m staying put. You’ll find me here when you’re done,” Nat said. “I’ll take care of your cocktail while you’re away.” She winked at Roxy who took a deep breath, put her hands up in front of her and moved into the crowd.

  Several minutes later Roxy emerged a few feet away from where Royston Lamontagne stood. And thank goodness she did. Jostled and inadvertently pushed along by the crowd, she had taken a long and circuitous route to reach him. Brushing herself down, and finger combing her short hair, once again grateful for the style’s practicality, she walked up to Lamontagne and stuck out her hand, panting gently, her nerves having evaporated during her journey across the floor of the club.