Drive Thru Murder

by Colleen Mooney

  Sandra was wearing her gypsy palm-reading outfit with the green scarf tied around her head, the ends hanging down her back, and her long flowing multi-colored dress with bangles of fake metal coins hung from her waist. I had watched as she staggered out of a United cab and headed up the flight of steps to her apartment.

  Her forward momentum got the better of her as she tried to negotiate the approach to her front door and took a nosedive into the hedge on the right side of the stairway. This was not the first time, and likely not the last, I would have to extract her from the landscape.

  I saw her tumble before I heard her wailing. My kitchen was at the back of our apartment, an L-shape building. That window faced Sandra’s raised basement home with the main stairway leading up to the front door.

  This raised bungalow-style, circa early 1900’s, called for no handrails on the steps. To me, this was a design flaw for homes built in a city that partied and drank as much as we did. The sides were just about four inches higher than the step itself, so her chances of falling off were good, and in Sandra’s case, since she was a boozer, her odds went up exponentially. I’d love to have those odds when buying a lottery ticket.

  “Brandy! Brandy! H-e-e-e-e-e-l-p!”

  All the other neighbors had had turns rescuing Sandra from her rocky exits to and from her front door and apparently had developed selective hearing when it came to her calls for help. It seemed as if only I could hear her.

  I put down my cup of coffee and put on the elbow-length oven mitts I designated especially for this task. I made my way through the length of our apartment and out the front door and headed across the street.

  When I got there, she was kicking and squirming and causing her clothing, long wavy brown hair, and handbag to become more entangled. The metal coins on her belt tinkled when she moved like a wind chime. It didn’t help that Sandra was stinking drunk.

  “Quit moving,” I said. “You’re breaking the branches. Are you hurt?”

  “No, don’t think so,” came her slurred nasal response as she squirmed and the movements entangled her more.

  “Hold still, or I’m going to have to cut you out of your clothes and hair to get you outta here. If you don’t want a crew cut, or your clothes snipped off, quit thrashing around.”

  As I looked around to see if anyone was coming to assist me, I gave up on the idea. Yesterday one of the two Tulane students who lived in an apartment next door to Sandra reluctantly helped when I caught him looking out his window and we made eye contact. It looked like he won’t be doing that again.

  Their cars were home, so I figured they were sleeping off Friday night, or they got a glimpse of her in the bush and had enough of the neighborly thing. My Good Samaritan indicator was registering on the low-level light and I just wanted to go back home and have my coffee in peace.

  I wrestled with Sandra’s petite ninety-something pounds for a good thirty minutes before I got her out of the ligustrums and lying flat on her back in the front yard. Her clothes were all torn up, her face scratched and bleeding.

  “Whoa, I haven’t done that in a while.” Her eyes were closed, and she was relaxing on the lawn as I tried to extract her handbag, one with an extra-long chain-like shoulder strap that seemed wrapped around every branch of the snarly bush.

  “Really, Sandra? You fell in yesterday. I’ve only lived here a week, and this is the third time I’ve pulled you out,” I said, trying to wipe the sweat out of my eyes with my shoulder to avoid the branches scratching my face. “You’re going to need the Jaws of Life to get your purse out of here. You should seriously consider carrying a clutch.”

  Finally, I just took her wallet and keys out of the handbag and left it dangling where it was. I helped her up the steps, opened the door and got her inside. “You’ll have to get your bag later. Let me put some peroxide on your scratches and then I have to run. I have someplace I need to be.”

  I really didn’t, but I was already forty-five minutes into Sandra on a Saturday morning, and I had things I wanted to do. Sandra usually arrived home—correction, stumbled home—about the same time every morning when I left for work.

  Twice this last week I was late after helping her out of the hedge. I felt sorry for Sandra, but now I was starting to feel sorry for myself and my self-imposed obligation to help her.

  Sandra carefully managed herself into her large cast-iron bathtub with the claw feet and lay down. I figured she hadn’t bothered to undress, not because she felt shy in front of me—I had seen Sandra running naked in front of her windows often enough—but because she was bombed and she just wanted to pass out.

  The bottle of hydrogen peroxide I’d used yesterday was right where I left it, on the back of the toilet. I poured most of what was in the bottle over her arms and legs where I could see visible scrapes. I dabbed cotton balls of the liquid on her face and neck scratches. Then I got a pillow from her bedroom, put it under her head, and left her dozing in the tub.

  I wanted to ask Sandra a couple of questions about the person she referred to as Opal, to see if she was the same Opal who was the tenant before Suzanne and me. But, the last two times I had seen her, I left her to pass out in her tub after extracting her from the bushes. Besides, something always made me wonder if Sandra would have actual facts or wind up sending me in the wrong direction.

  When I returned to my coffee, which was probably cold by now, Suzanne was up rummaging through the cabinets looking for a mug.

  “I made a fresh pot with that coffee maker, I hope you don’t mind.” Suzanne said, nodding to Mr. Coffee.

  “No, I don’t mind. I make my coffee with this one.” I handed her a mug from the cabinet closest to me. “You’re up early.”

  “The smell of the coffee woke me, but it’s OK. I have a lot to do today, and I got home about four this morning.” She poured herself a cup then sat holding the mug of coffee with both hands right below her nose, eyes closed as if she were meditating over it.

  “There’s all kinds of news, if you’re interested,” I said.

  “Yes. Tell me everything. I feel so out of touch. All I do is work, study, and sleep,” Suzanne answered.

  “Hey, have you ever met Sandra, our neighbor who lives directly across the street?” I asked.

  “The woman you just pulled out the hedge?” She yawned the question as she opened her eyes and stared into the coffee mug.

  I brought her the coffee creamer and a bowl filled with every type of sugar substitute we found when we emptied our purses or pockets. Sometimes Suzanne would answer and not remember because she had a hard time waking up after working all night. I learned to give her a little time and let the caffeine work. I wondered if she could be one of those sleepwalkers who do things in their sleep and never remember it happening.

  “Yes. She works late nights in the French Quarter also. She mentioned she might talk to you about sharing a cab home sometimes.”

  “Okay.” There was a brief pause before she looked up and asked me, “Where did that new coffee maker come from?”

  “You’re drinking from your new house-warming-gift Dante brought you,” I said and sat at our bistro table across from her.

  Halfway through her first cup of caffeine, Suzanne left her semi-dream state and joined me in the here and now saying, “I wanted to tell you I met Sandra, the neighbor across the street. I rode home on the streetcar with her two nights ago, and we agreed to share a cab the nights we both work. We shared one last night to see how it would work out.”

  “You shared a cab with her last night? I just saw her get home and stumble up and off the stairs into the hedges.”

  “Oh, I dropped her off at some bar near here. She says they send her the rest of the way home in a cab after she has a few in there.”

  “Well, that explains a couple of things, like why she just got home,” I said. Maybe Suzanne had found out the scoop on Sandra regarding the phone sex, and I was intrigued. “She told me she was a palm reader at Jackson Square.”

  �
�Palm Reader? Really? She told me she’s a phone sex operator,” Suzanne said between slurps of coffee. She slurped when she wanted to annoy me.

  “Wait.” I held up one finger adding, “Jiff and I went to that bar last night that left the free drink coupon on our door. What a dump. The bartender told us Sandra has a second job she doesn’t like and he knew she did the phone sex thing.”

  “You should have had my spot next to her until I dropped her off. She talks non-stop.”

  “Did she tell you about the phone sex job?” I asked.

  “That and then some.” Suzanne took another slurp of coffee.

  “I’m curious how that works,” I said to nudge her along. “I wonder if it’s some sophisticated call center, or does she sit in a small dark room in the back of a bar? Can she dial in remotely from anywhere, like home?”

  “I would have thought in all your telecom jobs you would know how these work, or might have designed one,” she said, getting ready to slurp again.

  “No, I haven’t done that. My clients have big business centers.”

  “You don’t think phone sex is big business?” She raised an eyebrow.

  “What did Sandra tell you? How does it work, do you even know?”

  “Sandra mentioned she works from home, but you should ask her. Y’all might have something in common, you know, the call center/telecom thing and all.” She held her cup of coffee right under her nose to hide the smile.

  “I see that smirk you think you’re hiding behind the coffee mug. Just tell me what Sandra said.”

  “Well, she said she sits in her robe and slippers watching taped shows while she’s logged in. There’s some phone bank, or room, in the back room at a dive bar she could sit in, but she said that’s depressing. She goes home and logs in if palm reading is slow during the day. That’s got to be a tough job, talking to one freak-a-zoid after another looking to get their kink on.”

  “Suzanne, you dance at the Club Bare Minimum. Do you think she gets bigger weirdoes than you do?”

  “Definitely. At least mine don’t hide at the other end of a phone line; I can see my nutcases. Besides, I don’t have to talk to anyone. I don’t even have to look at them. I just dance. In fact, the more you ignore them, the more they tip. Men.”

  “Speaking of weirdoes, that bartender that gave us the drink coupons is an odd one. He knows a lot about Sandra, has a football-like pool the locals buy blocks on to see how many times she’ll go in the hedge every week,” I said.

  Suzanne just shook her head and blew on her steaming cup of java. I finally asked again, “So, did she tell you how the phone sex thing works?”

  “Boy, you’re really into this. Are you thinking of augmenting your income in your spare time? You can always come work at The Club,” she said.

  “I’m curious from a business standpoint. I’d like to know what kind of call center they use.” What a lame excuse. I couldn’t even convince myself, and from the way Suzanne looked at me, I knew she wasn’t buying it. “Just quit slurping your coffee and tell me. You know that drives me crazy.”

  She took one more slurp and said, “Yes, I know it drives you crazy. What are roomies for?”

  “Ok, I have an inquiring mind. What else did she say?”

  “She said if she stays dialed in, even if they hang up, she still gets paid as long as she’s logged in and available for the next caller who wants to chat.”

  “Why would someone call in and hang up? You think they get embarrassed?”

  “Brandy, you can’t be that naïve. No, they aren’t embarrassed. She’s in a queue and gets the next bozo that dials in. The callers can’t request anyone in particular. They hang up because the caller doesn’t hear the voice they want to connect with, or they recognize her voice and they don’t want to talk—correction, pay to talk—to her.”

  “Oh wow, what could be worse than that—being rejected by someone calling into a phone sex line? Sandra could develop some major self-image issues.”

  “To quote one of your favorite sayings, I think that ship has sailed past the horizon for Sandra. She has bigger things to deal with, like making it up her front stairway to her front door without kissing the ligustrums,” she said. “She said a mechanical voice announces that the caller is looking for a cheerleader, schoolgirl, bored housewife, transgender, porn star, so she knows what they want to hear, and…”

  “Wait. She gets transgender calls? Aren’t there specific phone lines for every kind of interest?”

  “How in the world do I know? I’m just relating how she said it works. She got a call last week asking her to be a palm reader, so she gave them the description of her biggest competitor on Jackson Square. She told the guy she looked, dressed and acted like the other palm reader. Now, that bozo is probably going from palm reader to palm reader trying to figure out who talked dirty to him.”

  “Wow, you two see and hear it all while I look at endless files for fraudulent activity in companies who have been hacked. I must admit, my job is boring.”

  “There is nothing wrong with boring when there’s a good paycheck to go along with it,” Suzanne said. “Besides, you’re kinda good at finding the spy hackers.”

  “I thought my love life was problematic. It’s hard enough dealing with guys who appear normal. I can’t image how you and Sandra handle the ones you come in contact with,” I said.

  “It’s a good bet to figure everyone I come in contact with is a weirdo and none are the rich guy from Pretty Woman.” Suzanne sipped her coffee this time. “You learn fast how to maintain a safe distance.”

  “A safe distance. Well, that’s something I wish my sister would have learned. Since you’re cousins with the Deedlers, now we’re all one big happy family. I think they’re getting married.”

  Poor Suzanne. I dropped the news like a ton of bricks on her about my sister using her crying skills she perfected to con all of us, but specifically, to con one of the twins into marriage. Suzanne spilled her coffee when she jerked her head around at hearing the startling development.

  She started laughing and almost had coffee come through her nose when she heard how my mother found the home pregnancy test in the trash and how, at first, Sherry told them she wasn’t sure which one got her pregnant since she thought she had slept with both boys.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear your sister has been conning us all these years. I know that must make you feel betrayed. My Aunt Ruth will be happy that one of her boys is finally getting married, and to one of you girls,” she said.

  “Woozie said the same thing about Miss Ruth.”

  Suzanne had to leave to study for an exam so she didn’t have time to ask me more questions. I didn’t even get to tell her about the box of rings under the carpet piece the dogs pulled up. I hadn’t made any headway with my research on finding Fara Theriot. My latest attempt to locate her was to go to Child Services and see if they had any information on her since she was in the Foster Care System.

  They had no record of a Fara Theriot. The woman at the reception desk even looked through the national database to see if she had a record in another office. No Fara Theriot anywhere. The woman took my phone number in case someone else came looking for her. I thanked her and said it was a long shot, but maybe that would help me find her.

  There was so much going on, I didn’t know what to concentrate on. My little sister was having a baby. Maybe also a wedding. I seem to have no future with Dante and his commitment phobia. And what about this box of rings? Who hid that in the floor and why?

  Spiraling in and out of those thoughts was something about the murder at CluckIt. I felt the tingle you get up your back, like a shiver when something is off, or a missing piece you can’t quite put your finger on is sitting right in front of you. Then flashes of dragging Sandra out of the bushes crashed into my thoughts, disrupting my getting close to the missing CluckIt! piece. All these thoughts tumbled over and over each other until I had a headache that rivaled the worst of my college hangovers.

&nb
sp; Chapter Thirteen

  That afternoon I took Meaux and Jesus to the dog park in City Park to run and play with their canine pals. They were getting along great and both were tired after their outing. I threw a ball for Jesus until my arm ached. Who knew he had retriever in him!

  Dante called and asked if I wanted to meet him for his dinner break. I agreed. After I dropped both dogs off back home I made my way to Freret Street uptown. This was an area of New Orleans that had fallen on hard times as a retail corridor, but was on the rebound after merchants had a little po’boy festival one year. That little festival launched an annual event that now drew record-breaking crowds.

  The neighborhood returned, getting a facelift in the process. New businesses popped up in the old traditional storefronts, keeping that romantic feel alive. Restaurants were opening and the thirty-something crowd was socializing, with drinks being poured and food being served. The monthly scheduled street markets, that ran about five blocks from end-to-end, encouraged foot traffic to return to the area and encouraged shoppers to try new restaurants or bars, and shop in the new retail stores springing open every few weeks.

  At one end of the street mall, there was an open area closest to the main intersection that housed craftspeople and their wares under tents on the weekends. I stopped here and bought some homemade dog biscuits for Meaux, and I found some handmade olive oil soaps I purchased for myself.

  I waited for Dante on Freret Street at the restaurant we agreed upon. Like Magazine Street, Freret Street had sidewalk seating in front of eating establishments, and at the outside tables, water bowls were provided for the canine clientele. I had a wave of regret for not bringing Meaux because I would have enjoyed having him with me. I sat at an outside table so I could people-watch while I waited. After twenty minutes, Dante joined me.