Not Dead Enough Read online

  “No fucking way! You assaulted me!” I started dialing my phone. I could at least get the ambulance and the cops on the way before he started shooting.

  He reached for his gun.

  “Problem out here?” Melba, the transgender barista, was standing in the door. Holding a shotgun. She cocked it.

  He recognized the sound. Turned to look at her.

  She aimed it at him.

  He looked at it, back at me for a second, then finally thinking kicked in and he ran as quickly as he could to the black SUV, ruining his mob boy cred by dropping the keys, having to fumble around in the chicken bones in the street before retrieving it and jumping in his car.

  I could have gone up and gotten my gun in the time it took him to finally drive away.

  I high-fived Melba. She smiled in return.

  “Never know when you might need a little persuasion,” she said.

  “You do know how to use that?” I asked, being the responsible landlord I was.

  “Two tours in Afghanistan,” she said.

  “Glad you’re on my side,” I said.

  She nodded and headed back in. Maybe I’d have to start getting coffee here when she was working.

  I headed back upstairs, locking my office door in case Junior Boy decided to return. I wanted an undisturbed lunch.

  But before I took a bite, I called Karen. It went to voice mail. “This is Micky. Call me. It’s important.” I debated calling again and telling her to be on the lookout for a beetle-browed man wearing a windbreaker. But that snippet of information might not be enough to be helpful.

  Then I did the right thing and called Joanne as well. Also voice mail. I left a description of Junior Boy and the vehicle he was driving and let her know the Brandes were in town.

  Then I ate lunch. My po-boy was getting cold enough as it was.

  What the hell was Junior Boy doing here? At my doorstep, no less. Karen and I were pawns in this game. Whoever was doing this either was incredibly sloppy or had deliberately led them to us. That they knew about the house and about me argued for the latter. If Andrea was the dead body in the morgue, who was the live person doing this?

  “Too many damn Brandes,” I muttered, taking another bite. I wanted to call Anmar and ask her more questions about her family, but didn’t dare. The last thing she needed was for her secret phone to ring with Donnie sitting beside her.

  That brought me back around to the central question—at least as far as I was concerned—why me and Karen? Which Brande would know to pick us? Which one of them could be connected to the queer circuit in New Orleans? Andrea maybe, but she was out of the picture.

  Unless she wasn’t. Joanne said the woman in the morgue was in her forties. Andrea Brande was the same age as Anmar, late thirties. Not a huge difference, but maybe it wasn’t her.

  Except for the resemblance.

  Damn, damn, and double damn. Next time Anmar called—and I hoped she would—I would ask for a picture.

  After finishing the last bite, I sighed and got up. Back out in the heat. I needed to find Karen and warn her. Her fancy espresso machine wouldn’t be much protection.

  I took my gun with me, stuffing it (safely) into a small shoulder bag. I was not wearing a jacket, not in this heat.

  Hot car indeed. Almost cool by the time I got to Karen’s.

  A big gray Jeep was parked in the shady area, and today’s parking memo was to take up as much space as possible. It left three-quarters of a car between it and the next car, and half a car from the driveway. All in the shade. I found a partly shaded spot down the street.

  Stomping up the steps to let her know I was coming, I leaned on the doorbell.

  And again.

  Nothing.

  I trotted about the side. Her car was here.

  Back to the porch, again on the doorbell, a long, annoying peal.

  Sweat was dripping down my nose and into my eyes. “Five more seconds and you can take care of yourself,” I muttered.

  Four and a half seconds later the door opened.

  Karen’s dress—or lack thereof—gave me a good idea of what had kept her from the door. It was two p.m. and she was in a bathrobe, her hair tousled.

  “Who is it?” someone called from inside the house. Holly? It sounded like her voice.

  “Micky! What are you doing here?”

  “This is not a social call,” I said. “You might be in danger.”

  “Danger? What are you talking about?”

  I was standing out in the heat, sweat now running down every part of my body. “I won’t be long, but can you let me in so we can talk?”

  Karen sighed and stepped aside for me to enter. I came in just enough to let the door close. And get out of the heat.

  Holly came down the stairs, even less dressed than Karen, wrapped only in a towel. In the five minutes I’d stood out on the porch they’d had time to get dressed.

  “Let’s go sit,” Karen said, and without waiting for an answer, turned and headed to the back of the house, but instead of going to the sunroom—and its exposed windows—she stopped at the breakfast nook and sat at the table there.

  I considered whether to sit or remain standing. I didn’t want to be lounging around with two almost naked women.

  “Holly, be a dear and get us some sparkling water.”

  Holly was a dear and fetched three bottles of trendy water. She sat at one end of the table, with Karen at the other, leaving me no choice other than to sit between them.

  Oh, well, I’ve been with more naked women than this, I told myself as I sat. Admittedly the ice-cold water was welcome.

  “I’m only here to warn you,” I said.

  “Of what?” Karen cut in.

  “The woman. The house deal. It’s all involved with a crime family in the Atlanta area.”

  “Really?” Holly. “That sounds like a not well made TV show.”

  I ignored her. “It does sound crazy, but a big guy showed up on my doorstep earlier today, looking for me.”

  “And how do you know he had anything to do with this family?” Holly asked.

  I looked at her, the emotions in her eyes not matching those on her lips. Or maybe I just didn’t like her and was reading it in. She was a young woman, younger than both of us. Do-gooder social worker trying to protect Karen.

  “It’ll take too long to explain,” I said. “Research, talking to cop friends. Long story.”

  I’d run into Holly Farmer in the Atlanta airport—right when the Brandes were calling everyone home. Another quick glance at her face. No, it wasn’t there; more olive in her skin tones, a delicate arch to her eyebrows, hair light chestnut rather than the dark almost black of the Brandes. And gray eyes, not their hazel or brown. I could see no resemblance to the Brandes in her.

  I continued, “I don’t know how it’s all connected, but it has to do with the house, the woman who was at your office. Did you look at the picture I sent you?”

  “I was supposed to recognize anyone from that?”

  “It’s security video.”

  “Not a good picture. No, I didn’t recognize her, but it was too out of focus for me to recognize anyone. And she was at your office as well. Was she the one you saw?” Karen said.

  “Possibly,” I replied. “We’re still not sure it’s the same woman. Or that she’s the one in the morgue.”

  Holly didn’t react. Presumably Karen had already told her about her traumatic trip there. Most people perk up at things like dead bodies and morgues.

  “But why? How can I be in danger? I didn’t do anything.”

  “This is sounding more and more like a soap opera,” Holly said. “Evil twins?”

  “Maybe,” I said, hiding my irritation. The sooner they let me finish, the sooner they could get back to doing what they were doing. “Someone tapped into an account for the crime family for the house, and it seems that person wasn’t supposed to. So they are on the hunt. You might be collateral damage.”

  “Karen, this is cr
azy. She can’t know this.”

  Karen worried a fingernail, then said, “Micky is usually pretty accurate. It might not hurt to—”

  “To what?” Holly said. She didn’t like that Karen was listening to me and not to her. Jealous much?

  “I don’t know, maybe just be more careful.”

  Holly reached across the table and took Karen’s hand. “I’m sorry, you’re right. This sounds crazy to me, but it’s never a bad idea to be careful. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”

  Ahhhh, happy ending. Maybe if I weren’t so cynical, I’d do better in the dating department. They were looking at each other in a way that was a cue for me to go.

  I stood up. “Be aware. Big, black SUV. Or possibly a silver SUV. Tall, unibrow goon with a gun, but not very bright. Call me—or Jo—the cops—if anything happens.”

  Holly crooked a smile at me. “Thanks for the warning.” I couldn’t tell if it reached her eyes or not.

  She and Karen remained sitting, holding hands.

  I snagged my water bottle and let myself out.

  The half shade covering my car had moved on, leaving it in full sun.

  At least the water was cold.

  And the car cooled down by the time I got home, my chosen destination. In case Junior Boy came by the office again, I didn’t want to be there. And it was after three. It’s a rule if it’s over ninety-five degrees and in August you get to go home early.

  I paused in the street, looking for the snake. Maybe it had slithered off to a bayou by now.

  The poster still stared at me.

  “Excuse me,” someone behind me said.

  I turned abruptly, not expecting anyone and being too prepared to jump away from a hiss.

  “You’re Michele Knight, aren’t you?” she asked.

  Short, middle-aged (okay, around my age), hair a light brown, almost washed out to blond. Casual professional clothes. The kind of person who is from the health department to tell you about a measles outbreak in your area.

  “Yes, I am,” I said slowly, having no idea what someone from the health department would want with me. My brain flittered to wondering if she was another Brande, whole different lineage. Maybe I should have lied and given another name. But she seemed to know me.

  “You can’t keep the house, you know,” she said.

  Now I recognized her, the brief glimpse I’d seen once, at a distance. Nancy Forgettable Last Name. What the fuck?

  She forged ahead. “It’s half Cordelia’s. Dr. Cordelia James. Really more than half since she made the down payment.”

  “Wait, who are you?” I said tersely. I knew who she was but needed time to think how to respond. Other than shoving her into the street and cursing her out.

  “My name is Nancy Olden. I am—”

  I cut her off. “I know who you are. Cordelia sent you here to tell me she wants her half of the house back? Why isn’t she here?”

  “She…she’s busy.”

  “You’re doing this behind her back,” I guessed.

  “No. She’s been meaning to do it, but with the new clinic building and everything, she hasn’t been able to, but it needs to be done.”

  “So, she knows you’re here, right?” I demanded. “Call her on the phone. I want to speak to her.”

  “She’s busy,” Nancy said. “She was afraid you might be upset with her and get into an argument that would do no good.”

  I took a step toward her, enough to make us uncomfortably close and to let me look down at her. I was pissed. My guess was Cordelia didn’t know Nancy had undertaken this mission. It didn’t seem like her to send her girlfriend (partner? wife?) to handle this in her stead. But people change with new people.

  “And she thought I wouldn’t get upset at a stranger showing up with no warning to tell me to get out of a house I’ve lived in over a decade? A stranger who put no money whatsoever into the house?” I took another step. She moved back. “A stranger who never waited all day for the plumber or crawled under the house to look for our cats, who hasn’t paid a single penny on the mortgage? She thought that would be just fine?”

  Nancy backed up, this time a full yard. “It has to be dealt with,” she said, her face getting red. It could be the heat; her hair was damp and her underarms soaked. It might be anger. Or it could be her finally realizing she hadn’t really thought this through. I gave her credit (small, very small) for not turning tail and running. She repeated, “It has to be dealt with. You can’t keep living here like you own it. Cordelia—Dr. James needs to be treated fairly.”

  I almost asked if she called her Dr. James when they were having sex, their pet orgasm name. But I noticed Torbin and Andy out on their steps, watching the show.

  “Fine,” I said in as controlled voice as I could. “You tell ‘Dr. James’ to come talk to me about it. And tell her not to be such a goddamn coward to send you instead. She has my phone number; it hasn’t changed.”

  “I had hoped you would be reasonable,” she said, trying to save face. “I can see you’re not.”

  “I am being reasonable. That’s not the same thing as giving you what you want. I’m sorry you can’t tell the difference. This is not your house. This is not your business. You need to leave.”

  “But—”

  “Leave,” I said, a low growl. “Now.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, but Torbin interceded. He was walking down the block toward us. “Nancy, this isn’t a good time,” he said.

  She had enough sense to realize she was outnumbered. She turned away from me, nodded briefly at Torbin, then walked stiffly to her car, outrage with nowhere to go.

  “What the fuck?” I muttered to Torbin.

  She pulled away, driving a late-model sedan.

  He sighed, then took my arm and led me to his house.

  “What the fuck,” I repeated as we got to his door.

  “Andy,” he called as we entered. “Stiff drinks. Very stiff.” To me he said, “Well, that was classy.”

  “The highest,” I muttered. I didn’t know if he was referring to me or her, so I added, “She caught me unawares. I wasn’t ready for that conversation.”

  Andy handed me a tall, frosty glass. Probably a vodka and tonic, but I didn’t care. I took a long sip.

  “She’s been moaning about living in a condo, sharing walls. And how nice it would be if they lived right down the street from us.”

  “What the fuck,” I said again. It would be my motto for the night.

  “I love Cordelia, Nancy seems nice,” Andy said, adding, “when she’s not being too pushy, but I’d prefer you on our block than them.”

  I smiled at him. “Thank you.” I took another sip. It was strong. A good idea. “Do you think Cordelia sent her to talk to me?”

  They exchanged a look. Torbin said, “Never say never, but about as likely as a freak snowstorm here tomorrow. Nancy sees her role as being a doctor’s wife, taking care of everything. If Cordelia doesn’t get to it, Nancy takes it on.”

  “Like I never did.”

  “You had your own life, your own job,” Torbin pointed out. “And you did wait for the plumber and search for cats who bolted out the door. You just weren’t…”

  “Her housewife,” Andy said. “Well, it’s true. She doesn’t have a job, doesn’t seem to want to get one, seems to prefer taking care of her woman.”

  “Didn’t the women’s movement get rid of that?” Torbin said.

  I took another sip. “She is right. I don’t own the house outright. Cordelia and I bought it together.” I finished my drink in one big gulp.

  Andy took my glass to refill it. I held my thumb and forefinger close together to indicate going lighter on the vodka. He nodded.

  “She may be right,” Torbin said slowly, “but it’s not her house. I would be very…angry if they did anything to force you out. Cordelia deals with it or she doesn’t.”

  “Thanks,” I said, giving him a hug. He returned it, holding me tightly as if to show he
wasn’t going to let me go.

  “Group hug,” Andy said, putting the drink down to join in.

  “Wait, I need my drink,” Torbin said, pulling us halfway across the room to get it.

  “I need mine,” I replied, pulling us in the opposite direction.

  “No, mine,” Andy said, dragging us a different way, at which point we were all laughing too much to keep holding on.

  I finished my drink. They were going out to a drag show out in the ’burbs.

  I left, with them waving me good-bye with a “What the fuck!” cheer.

  Chapter Twelve

  I let the sun get mostly down, and sobered up slightly, before walking to R&F. Tomorrow was salad day, so tonight could be fried catfish night and I could avoid the dreaded grocery run for another day. I needed to eat something filling, and this was the easiest option. Plus I could sort of call it work by checking on the security cameras.

  “Hey,” Rob greeted me as I entered. “Long time no see.”

  “Out of town. Anything happen while I was gone?”

  “In the world? Or here at the bar?”

  “The world I know about—as much as I want to know. Anything here?”

  Two drop-dead-gorgeous men draped their arms over Rob’s shoulders. One was a redhead, the other brown with distinguished gray. Both underdressed even for August, but with the bodies to get away with it.

  The redhead said, “Is this the hot damn cute lesbian you were telling us about? The ever so butch security expert?”

  I shot Rob a look.

  “I cannot tell a lie,” he said. “Indeed it is.”

  “Should we tell her?” Gray/brown said.

  “Do you have names?” I asked. I didn’t want to risk calling them by their hair colors out loud.

  “Nickname is—duh—Red,” said the redhead.

  “Do you have a real name?”

  “Zgorski. Kristopher Zgorski.”

  I coughed. “I’ll call you Red. And you?”

  “Nickname is Prof—Professor.”

  “Real name?”

  “Milton Wendland. Do not call me Milt. All or nothing.”

  I sighed—softly. “We’ll go with Prof as well. How’d you get that?”

  “I teach gender studies at a university I will not name since they don’t know I occasionally dance.”