“Coco,” she whispered, not wanting to draw the attention of nearby tables again, “you see that lady sitting in the corner with the blue streak in her hair? She’s a figure-skating star but isn’t expected to win the next competition because she’s distraught over her ex-lover who ran off to Tahiti with her best friend.” It sounded plausible enough, Sadie thought to herself with satisfaction. But she could do better.
“And that short guy at the counter? He’s on parole for grand theft. I wonder if he’ll pay for his order. I bet he stole those alligator boots he’s wearing.” She tapped her fingers on the table disapprovingly.
Sadie’s face lit up as Marie set a plate of the rice fritters in front of her. The aroma of hot fried batter mixed with powdered sugar was intoxicating. She took a bite, closed her eyes, and sighed. What could be better than enjoying regional specialties? It was one of her priorities when traveling, much to the dismay of her waistline.
“Now, Coco,” she continued to whisper. “I’m sure you saw that man in the jogging clothes at the middle table. He’s a famous billionaire disguised as a marathon runner in order to keep from being recognized. He’s madly in love with a fashion boutique owner from San Francisco but can’t get the nerve up to tell her. He sends her anonymous gifts constantly—French perfume, emerald earrings, even a vintage brocade ceremonial kimono from Japan.” She took another sip of coffee. “Of course she sends it all back. She does have principles, after all!”
Amused with herself, Sadie shook her head, banana earrings flopping back and forth. She took another bite of fried rice fritter, searched for another subject with an intriguing, albeit fictional, background.
“Here we go,” Sadie whispered to Coco, who briefly stuck her head out of the tote bag to look around. “You see that lady walking in the door with the cane? She could use a style makeover—such drab clothing, not to mention the disheveled hair and odd hat.”
Coco made a slight snorting sound and ducked back inside the tote bag.
“I know, not very nice of me to comment on her attire,” Sadie admitted. “Not everyone has a “Flair” for style. But she can’t help the limp. She was fortunate to survive the trapeze accident she had when she was performing in Europe. Now she works as an accountant, which is difficult since her eyes are so sensitive to light—thus the sunglasses she’s wearing.”
Sadie sighed with sympathy. “Some people’s lives just don’t go in a positive direction. And speaking of direction…” She paused as the woman looked around and then approached Sadie’s table. Without invitation, she slid into the chair across from Sadie, took off her sunglasses, and set them down.
“Sadie,” the now-recognizable woman said.
“Clotile,” Sadie responded, unsure if she’d categorize her reaction as surprised, startled, or nervous. She rubbed her forehead as a means of surreptitiously shooting a sideways glance at Detective Broussard. Reassured that he’d noticed Clotile’s arrival, she looked back at the well-disguised woman.
“Well, at least you didn’t suffer a trapeze accident.”
Clotile stared at her blankly.
“Never mind,” Sadie said, waving her hand in the air. “The explanation wouldn’t make any sense.”
“I imagine you have some questions.” Clotile ventured a tentative smile.
“More than you can possibly imagine,” Sadie said. “Where should I begin? Oh, let’s start with why you tried to poison me.”
“Why I what?” Clotile raised her voice and then lowered it again quickly.
The conversation paused abruptly as Marie approached the table to see if the person who’d joined Sadie’s table wanted to order anything. Clotile shook her head, and the server walked away.
“You know,” Sadie continued. “The poison you planted in my room.”
Clotile paled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
Sadie watched as the blood drained from Clotile’s face. Unless the woman had the ability to turn into a ghost on cue, she was telling the truth.
“The whipped cream.” Sadie tried for a different reaction.
“You mean at Lisette’s?” Clotile said. “On Mimi’s tart?”
“No, in my refrigerator,” Sadie said. “Wait… what? You’re the one who poisoned Mimi Arnaud at Lisette’s?”
Even with Detective Broussard a few tables away, Sadie had the sudden impulse to run from the room.
Clotile leaned forward. “I did not poison Mimi Arnaud!” she whispered. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“I think you know,” Sadie said. “Did they bribe you to do it?”
“Who are ‘they’?” Clotile said, aghast. “And what do you mean by ‘bribe’ me? You think someone could bribe me to poison someone? Are you insane?”
“Well, it does appear you could use a clothing allowance,” Sadie quipped as she looked Clotile up and down. “And a hairstylist,” she added for good measure.
Clotile did not look amused.
“I’ll have you know there is an undercover detective in this room,” Sadie said. “So if you lured me here with bad intentions, I wouldn’t suggest trying anything.”
Clotile nodded. “I’m glad he’s here. Or she, whatever.”
“You’re glad?” Sadie said. Odd reply in view of the circumstances. “Why?”
“This is why,” Clotile said. She walked to the counter and returned quickly with a napkin and pen. She scribbled a short note and turned the napkin toward Sadie, who read it and then locked eyes with Clotile as the words sank in.
We’re both in danger.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The wine-and-appetizer hour in the hotel lobby looked especially scrumptious. Smoked paprika-glazed Andouille sausage, thin slices of Gouda, and crusty bread crisps were a perfect complement to the light-bodied French Burgundy the hotel was serving that evening.
Sadie took an appetizer selection, along with a glass of wine, to a seat purposely chosen to be within view of the front desk. Although she had no intention of glancing in that direction, Horace LeBlanc might happen to look out and see her. She figured her very public seating selection would send a signal that she was not aware of the situation Clotile had described. In other words, appearing to be oblivious to any danger might lower the danger she seemed to be in. It was a decent theory, in any case.
As skeptical as she’d been of Clotile’s story, it seemed to be in her best interest to assume it was the truth. She had nothing else to go on unless Detective Broussard came up with something different. And so far he hadn’t.
Thinking back to earlier in the day, she reviewed the conversation she’d had with the detective after meeting with Clotile. The plan they’d arranged beforehand, to leave separately and meet at another location, had been wise. Sadie had left Bluette’s place shortly after Clotile—purposely not leaving with her—and spent ten minutes or so browsing shops along Bourbon Street. Intrigued by a glow-in-the-dark, faux-skull bracelet at one souvenir shop, she’d almost forgotten the plan to meet Broussard in front of Preservation Hall. From there they walked to Jackson Square, where they could mingle among others who gathered to enjoy artists who displayed their wares and musicians who entertained the crowds.
“You believe her,” Broussard had said, phrasing it more as a statement than a question.
“Yes. She seems truly scared. She has no reason to make up such a wild story.” Sadie had pointed that out while admiring a colorful painting of musical instruments dotting a night sky like stars. Although she’d resisted the temptation to buy it, the piece would have looked perfect in her own living room.
Broussard had insisted he bring Clotile into the station for questioning. Sadie had convinced him to let her talk Clotile into going in on her own, thinking she’d be more willing to cooperate if she felt the meeting was on her terms.
Sadie had considered telling the detective about the paper that Horace LeBlanc dropped. But discussing a hotel remodel paled in importance when compared to the more pressing issue of Clotile’
s involvement—or lack thereof—in Mimi Arnaud’s death.
Now, over a sip of wine, Sadie pondered how exactly to convince Clotile to go in to talk to Detective Broussard. She’d made a point of not inviting Clotile to the hotel for appetizers, in order to give herself time to think. She still didn’t know how completely she should trust Clotile’s story. There were inconsistencies that bothered her. What about the other man she’d seen Horace LeBlanc with? Clotile refused to talk about him, even though Sadie had seen them together before. When Sadie pressed for information, Clotile hadn’t denied knowing him but didn’t want to talk about him. Other than saying he was working some kind of business deal with Horace, she’d pleaded ignorance of any details. Instead, she’d just encouraged Sadie to remove herself from danger by changing hotels or even returning to San Francisco earlier than planned.
Sadie wasn’t about to leave New Orleans early. And she wasn’t about to change hotels either. Not before she found out what was going on. Someone had tried to frame her, after all. She wasn’t about to let that go. Besides, the appetizers were delicious. Why take the risk of having only pretzels or something similar at another lodging establishment? No, she’d chosen Hotel Arnaud-LeBlanc for a variety of reasons. The addition of mysterious goings-on was simply a bonus—aside from the detail of being in danger, of course.
Taking another trip to the appetizer table, Sadie could see the front desk out of the corner of her eye. Although she was not about to look directly, she could tell a tall figure stood behind the counter. Undoubtedly, Horace LeBlanc, she thought as she helped herself to another serving of Gouda, sausage, and crusty bread, as well as an extra slice of bread for Coco. “You’d love the sausage,” she whispered to the Yorkie, “but the spices wouldn’t be good for you.”
Heading back to her room, she passed the same maintenance worker who’d been repairing the sprinkler head the other day. He now occupied a position a few rungs up on a ladder, replacing a rain gutter.
“Is it going to rain?” Sadie asked. She hoped not. The sunny weather so far had made it easy to explore the area. Besides, she hadn’t brought her favorite raincoat with her. The bright yellow waterproof garment with rubber duckies on it always drew compliments or at least comments of some sort. Admittedly, some were better described as observations than compliments, and a few were borderline rude. It didn’t bother her in the least. She was very fond of that raincoat. Coco even had one to match.
“Not in the next few days, ma’am,” the man said. “We just like to be prepared.”
“Good,” Sadie said, relieved. “Very good.”
Inside the room, Sadie settled Coco in the travel palace and helped herself to a bottle of sparkling water. Opening the refrigerator to get the water gave her pause, but the police had assured her everything in her room was safe now.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, across from Coco, Sadie thought back to the unsettling whipped cream incident in her room. Whoever planted that was trying to throw the blame on her for Mimi Arnaud’s death. Horace LeBlanc seemed the most likely suspect, seeing as he surely had a master key to the building. It would have been easy for him to slip in and out while she took Coco for the brief walk that morning. Would that mean he was the killer? It only stood to reason that the killer would be the one trying to divert attention to someone else.
Or maybe it was Clotile, and everything she was supposedly confiding now was simply an additional cover-up. Clotile’s recent revelations at the café could all be lies. She might have intended to kill Mimi from the start.
Still, it seemed off that Clotile would point Mimi out to Sadie when the woman came into Lisette’s that morning. And that’s exactly what she’d done. That seemed irrational, drawing attention to someone who she knew was about to die. In fact, why would she even suggest meeting there?
“None of this makes sense, Coco.” Sadie set her bottle of sparkling water down on a tile coaster decorated with a fleur-de-lis design. Coco returned a blank stare and then tapped her food bowl with her paw.
“What about Bluette?” Sadie said aloud as she began to pace. “I don’t think the police have even bothered to investigate her, yet she would stand to gain by having her competition close.” Sadie mulled that over. She’d only seen Bluette a couple of times, and both times the bakery owner had seemed quiet and preoccupied. Maybe she was being quiet in order to keep a low profile because she was guilty. She’d have to bring this up with Broussard.
Sadie flopped down on the bed, tired of running scenarios over and over in her head. It was exhausting. She’d intended the trip to be a vacation, not an episode of Murder She Wrote.
A clinking sound brought Sadie out of her reverie. Glancing at Coco, she was both dismayed and impressed to find that Coco had pushed her Villeroy and Boch bowl over to the side of her luxury kennel in order to tap the china against the metal wire of the siding.
“I’m sorry, Coco,” Sadie said. “I guess I’m preoccupied. I forgot you didn’t have the advantage of appetizers to fill you up before dinner.”
Again, Coco tapped her paw on the food dish, clearly uninterested in excuses.
“How about chicken tonight?” Sadie opened a can of the Yorkie’s favorite food and filled the china bowl with a generous serving. Ten minutes later, Coco had finished her meal and curled up for an evening siesta.
Never should have said “chicken,” Sadie thought to herself as her stomach rumbled. Perhaps the appetizers weren’t enough to get through the night. She put on gold metallic flats, grabbed her wallet, and slipped out of the room. Making sure the door was locked behind her, she headed to the front desk.
The lobby was sparsely populated now, the wine-and-appetizer hour long over. A twenty-something male desk clerk replaced his expression of boredom with one of hospitality as Sadie approached the counter.
“I noticed a tiny chicken shack when I checked in, two doors down from here,” Sadie ventured. “Can you tell me if it’s any good?”
“Only good?” The young man smiled. Sadie could tell he was holding back a chuckle out of courtesy. She should have known better than to ask. She already knew from years of traveling that the smallest places often featured the best local fare.
“Do they prepare food to go?” Sadie asked. “And what do you recommend?”
The young clerk nodded. “Yes, in fact, they’ll deliver right here to the lobby. They’re fast too. We can charge it to your room.” As for what to order, you don’t have a choice.” He laughed. “And you won’t want one. Their fried chicken with butter beans, fried okra, and cornbread is out of this world. Would you like me to call it in for you?”
“That would be wonderful!” Sadie said. She watched while the clerk called in the order for “one plate” and then took a seat in an overstuffed armchair. In a matter of minutes, the food arrived. Sadie tipped the delivery person and headed back to her room, foil-covered plate balanced on one hand.
“Coco,” Sadie called as she entered the room and relocked the door. “You’re not the only one who gets chicken tonight.” She set the dinner delivery down in the front room and kicked off her flats. “I might even share some with you.”
Wishing she’d thought to order sweet tea, she headed to the refrigerator for bottled water but then froze as a shockwave of fear shot through her.
Coco’s fancy travel palace was gone.
And so was Coco.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Detective Broussard, please!”
“Ma’am, please try to calm down,” the woman answering the phone at the police station said. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Then get Detective Broussard for me!” Sadie wailed. “Tell him Coco has been dognapped!” She paced back and forth, trying not to hyperventilate. Fainting would do nothing to help the situation.
“Have you checked with the front desk of the hotel you’re staying at?”
Sadie pounded her fist against her forehead. She couldn’t possibly explain. She had to reach Broussard directly. “I can’t,�
�� she said. “I just need to talk to Detective Broussard. Please, you have to find him!”
A sharp knock on the door interrupted the phone call. Clutching the phone to her chest, Sadie ran to the door’s peephole and looked through it.
“Thank you!” she shouted to the woman on the phone.
“I’m not sure I…”
Sadie dropped the phone and flung open the door. She grabbed Detective Broussard by the sleeve and pulled him into her room. Under different circumstances, the action might have seemed inappropriate. But she was operating solely on panic.
“Ma’am…” The crackling voice was barely audible and not at all to Sadie.
Detective Broussard guided Sadie to a chair and gently encouraged her to sit. “We’re going to help,” he said. “Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
The detective picked Sadie’s wayward phone up off the floor. “It’s okay, Ruby. I’ll take it from here.” He set the phone down on a side table and turned back to Sadie.
“All I did was order chicken!” Sadie cried, her words barely understandable between hysterical sobs.
Broussard glanced at the foil package. “Best chicken in New Orleans too,” he said. “Don’t worry, it will be good later.”
“I don’t care about the chicken.” Sadie sobbed. “I mean, seriously, Detective! Who likes fried okra anyway?”
“Well, actually…” Broussard started to speak but stopped as the two officers who’d helped with the first break-in approached from the hallway. “Here we go, Ms. Kramer. I think this will ease your fears.”
Sadie looked up, discouraged but feeling a sense of anticipation grow after hearing Broussard’s words. The first officer walked in, a pad of paper in one hand, a pen in the other. Sadie’s spirits fell, and she slumped back in the chair. But when the second officer entered, she jumped up, hardly able to believe her eyes. In one hand he held a battered rendition of Coco’s travel palace. In the other, he held Coco herself.
A Flair for Beignets (The Sadie Kramer Flair Mysteries Book 3) Page 10
