Not Dead Enough Page 8

  A fried shrimp po-boy and, yes, bread pudding for dessert, and I headed back to my office.

  As if to mollify me, when I arrived, Joanne already had emailed pictures of the dead woman’s jewelry.

  I shut down my email. Lunch was more important.

  And then a bathroom break. Then making more coffee. Which I iced down because even I’m not enough of a caffeine junkie to serve it hot on a hot August afternoon. Especially with the heat of digesting bread pudding.

  I opened the email again.

  Stared at the pictures.

  I remembered an impression of the jewelry. A lot of it, several rings on both hands, big earrings, heavy necklace, silver and turquoise. Was this the same? Probably. Maybe.

  I sighed. I could just email Karen the pictures.

  And sighed again. I couldn’t just email Karen the pictures. She knew her bangles; I knew the questions to ask, and for that to happen, I had to be sitting in front of her when I showed them to her.

  I sighed again. Burped fried shrimp and bread pudding.

  I picked up my phone and dialed her number.

  “Where are you?” I asked, when she picked up.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I have the pictures of the dead woman’s jewelry. I need to show them to you.”

  “Um, okay. I’m at home. No bodies, just the stuff, right?”

  “Rings and things on a brown paper bag background. Not even the pudgy finger of an evidence room officer intruding.”

  She agreed, telling me she lived at the same Garden District home I’d been to before. I still asked for the address. It had been a long time since I’d been there.

  One of my least favorite things to do in the world is get in and out of hot cars, especially during the August steam bath. Between going to see Joanne, the po-boy stop, and now this, I was over the limit for in and out of the heat. I pointed both blowers at my face, but even so it took most of the trip up there before my car had cooled down to a comfortable temperature.

  I skipped the parking place right in front and instead drove past looking for a shady place. It took doing the entire block to know that everyone else had the same idea and my choices were close and in the sun and not so close and in the sun. Close—and hot—it was.

  Karen’s house wasn’t one of the Garden District monsters, but it was still way out of my price range, a perfectly manicured lawn, with dots of color from a profusion of flowers, mainly pinks, reds, and yellows, a few deep blue irises in the shade. A large oak dominated the side yard, with a mature magnolia in the front, close enough to the house to offer it shade, leaving the street in the sun. The house itself was two stories, a wide porch on at least two sides, with a balcony on the second floor. The white paint gleamed, a sky blue door, the same hue echoed in the woodwork ornamentation, crafts from a bygone era. Even though it didn’t rival the houses on St. Charles Avenue, it still seemed too large for one person. My opinion, of course. Karen liked to entertain, parties of people spilling onto the porch and yard. I’d been to enough of them when Cordelia and I were together. She did charity events, opening her house—and even her wallet—for various causes from battered women’s shelters to queer youth. But non-charity events as well. I’d hate to have to clean all that space. Oh, wait, she had a maid. Maybe a lot of room let you keep part of it company ready and then live in the parts people didn’t see. I always had to clean up if I wanted company over.

  I climbed the stairs to the porch, wiped the sweat from my brow, and rang the doorbell.

  And waited. I gave it an additional slow count to ten, then rang again. She could be in the bathroom.

  I decided the doorbell didn’t work and raised my fist to knock when the door opened. I again wiped the sweat off my face; it had returned in the interval I had waited.

  “Come in,” Karen greeted me. She was dressed in off-white linen pants and a light pink sleeveless cotton top. No shoes. She looked all too cool and comfortable.

  I brushed past her, again wiping off more sweat while she closed the door.

  “Come on to the back, we’re having homemade lemonade.”

  I hesitated. We? “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

  “No problem.” Karen kept on walking. Reluctantly, I followed her, bracing for who the “we” might be. Karen’s was also on the list of places I didn’t want to run into Cordelia.

  It would be like Karen to throw us together and watch the fun. They were Southern cousins, so of course saw each other at family gatherings, and being the queer kids of an old New Orleans family had given them a bond, but their lives had taken different paths—Cordelia to medical school and being a do-gooder and Karen to the family tradition of not worrying too much about the little people except at Christmas bonus time. I, of course, had been firmly on Cordelia’s side, disdaining Karen’s choices with the best of them. For payback, Karen brought up our brief (very brief!) affair before I’d met Cordelia as often as she could and flirted with me when she thought she could get away with it—and when Cordelia was watching.

  Since Cordelia and I had broken up, those occasional meetings had ceased. I was no longer part of the family.

  Karen led me through her kitchen, updated since I’d last seen it, with new trendy gunmetal appliances, a spotless counter in a shade of charcoal-veined granite with the long counters filled with all kinds of appliances, espresso maker, stand mixer, pizza oven. But it looked more like a show kitchen than a used kitchen. I’d take mine with flour dusting the countertop from the last time I made bread, I told myself, with a last glance at her six-burner stove.

  She led me into the back plant room, mercifully still in the air-conditioned confines of the house proper. It was filled with light from the three walls of windows, shimmering off the profusion of green from the plants everywhere they could fit around the white wicker seating, a love seat and several lounge chairs.

  I braced myself as I entered. Cool, nonchalant, here only on business.

  The woman in the room wasn’t Cordelia. I’d never seen her before. I would have noticed her. Tall, maybe five eight or nine, wavy chestnut hair, the kind of deep brown eyes a camera would love, full lips, high cheekbones, and either good genes or a great plastic surgeon, with a perfect nose, a little delicate for her face, but it led back to her arresting eyes.

  “Holly, this is Micky,” Karen said.

  Ah, Holly, the girlfriend. I tried not to look as relieved as I felt. It wasn’t Cordelia, and I wouldn’t have to worry about Karen flirting—I didn’t know if she meant it or just did it to make us—me now—uncomfortable.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “So this is the Micky you’ve told me about?” she said to Karen, but arching an eyebrow in my direction.

  Well, I wouldn’t have picked you as a social worker. I had the sense to only think it. Politely, I said, “I’m just here to look at the pictures. I’d like to get back to Joanne as soon as I can.” A not subtle reminder to Karen that what transpired here would be related to others.

  Karen was not stupid. If I told Joanne, Joanne would tell her partner Alex, and Alex and Cordelia had been close since high school. That was one of the tensions in their relationship, Cordelia and her friends’ disapproval of Karen’s choices. Karen, for reasons I didn’t understand, wanted their approval. “Would you like some lemonade? I just made it, fresh.”

  “It’s good, unless you like it sweet,” Holly seconded.

  I said yes, mainly because I’d already sweated out every ounce of liquid I’d taken in and I still had the sweltering car ride back. It was already made and sitting on the table. With, I noticed, enough glasses for all of us. Well, Karen did know I was coming—I had called.

  I had printed out the pictures, large color prints, better than on my phone. Holly was on one of two paired lounge chairs, with a wrought iron table between them. I sat on the love seat—it was that or next to her, presumably where Karen had been sitting. Or the far side of the room under a plant that needed to be cut back.r />
  I pulled the photos out of the folder I had put them in and spread the first few on the table.

  Karen handed me a glass, then sat beside me to look at them.

  I took a sip. I noticed that Holly was watching me while trying to make it look like she wasn’t watching me.

  I took another sip. She was good looking; Karen was rich. Story older than time, in the new lesbian version. But to be honest, Karen was also attractive, a well-honed gym body, hair that was a rich shade of wheat blond or expertly enough dyed to look natural. Same blue eyes that Cordelia had, probably their most noticeable family resemblance. Bone structure that would be kind to her as she got older. Karen was in her mid-thirties, starting the slide to forty. Holly was at most late twenties, but I’d bet twenty-eight was stretching it.

  And maybe they really cared for each other. In any case, it didn’t matter. This would be over soon, and in all likelihood I might run across Karen at some future Mardi Gras as we passed in the street and that would be it.

  Karen stared at the pictures. Holly stared at me sitting next to her on the couch.

  I drank my lemonade.

  Being a private detective is so glamorous.

  “What do you think?” I asked as I put down my half-empty glass. “Are they the same?”

  Karen shuffled through the photos, then said, “Some are. That cheap ring is the same. I remember looking at it and thinking I hoped she didn’t pay more than ten dollars for it.” She pointed to its picture.

  “Why do you think it’s cheap?”

  “How thin the metal is, the slight tarnish on one edge. The turquoise looks like mismatched chips, the leftover stuff jammed into another ring to sell to the tourists.”

  “Okay, so you believe she was wearing this? The woman you saw?”

  “This ring, yes. But she also had on an expensive necklace, beautiful artistry, sapphires and a nicely done rose gold filigree. I don’t see that here.”

  I looked through the pictures but didn’t see the necklace Karen described. I closed my eyes trying to picture the woman I’d seen. A lot of jewelry—what was on her neck?

  I’m going to install a camera in my office and take pictures of all my clients, I vowed, as I struggled to remember and not let Karen’s description guide me.

  Something blue, but delicate, probably didn’t fit with her other pieces, but I didn’t pay attention to things like that. It could be the same one Karen mentioned.

  “It’s not here,” Karen said after another look through the photos.

  “If it was the best piece, maybe it was stolen.”

  “But why leave everything else?” she asked. “If you’re a junkie looking for drug money, why not take everything?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe he was interrupted. Or maybe it was someone after that specific piece.”

  “It was nice,” Karen said. “But most likely a family heirloom, their best piece from the old country. Not worth more than a thousand or so.”

  “That’s a lot of money to some people.”

  “Not a jewel thief. Anyone who knows their stuff wouldn’t bother. They have to sell it underground, and that clips the value.”

  “The other possibility is someone put enough of the jewelry on the dead woman to make it look like the person we saw, but they didn’t want to give up the good stuff, so they kept it,” I said.

  “But why?” Karen asked.

  It was the question I was asking as well.

  “It makes no sense,” Holly said. “Maybe it’s a stupid prank.”

  “Yeah, but with real money involved,” I pointed out. “I think it has to be some sort of con, but I can’t work out for what.”

  “Maybe. It still sounds stupid to me.” She got up, came around to perch on the armrest next to Karen, and put her arm around her. Claiming her territory. Karen and I had been sitting next to each other on the sofa to look at the pictures.

  I stood up as well.

  “We haven’t gotten any closer to solving this,” Karen said.

  “No, but we have more information. At some point the information will add up.” I put the pictures back in the folder, noticing a still-damp area where it had been tucked under my sweaty arm. I picked up my glass for one final swig of the lemonade. I would sweat it out before I got back to the office. “Thanks for seeing these on such short notice.”

  “No problem,” Karen said. “I’m stuck in this, too.” She stood up, awkwardly, with Holly’s arm still around her shoulders. “I’ll see you out.”

  I led. I could find my way back to her front door. Holly came with us, as if our good-bye needed a chaperone. The few yards to the door was the usual chitchat, the lemonade was good, I’d be in touch if anything came up, yadda-yadda.

  I headed down the stairs, Karen still at the open door. I heard it shut only after I’d passed the magnolia tree.

  Yep, my car was hot. I opened all the windows and turned the AC to full, trying to get at least part of the hottest air out. But I didn’t linger. Karen was probably watching at the window. I wondered what she was saying to Holly. And what she had told her about me.

  As I expected, my car only cooled to reasonably comfortable when I was about five blocks from my house. It was midafternoon. My choice was to call it a day and go home, or to go back to my office, stare at my computer screen, and pretend I was working.

  A third option beckoned. With the holy grail of a parking space right by it. I pulled in, half a block from R&F. I could check on how the installation of the security system was going, hang out and observe in the afternoon and call it work.

  I caught Lisa and Valerie of the Electric Girls just as they were finishing up.

  “Hey, Mick, perfect timing. Let us show you what we have.”

  Lisa led me back to the small office in the back. On one side was a desk piled high with paper, but the other side was a fancy new monitoring system. As we had asked, there were no cameras inside, but the outside was covered, the back alley and the street outside it as well as two angles on the sidewalk out front, so you could see people coming from both directions. In color, even. The picture quality was good. They showed me how the paging system worked. The phones—one in the office, two behind the bar at either end—could be used as a loudspeaker, in case someone needed to broadcast a warning. For example, someone with a gun out on the street.

  Under the bar they had installed both an automatic lock on the doors and a panic button.

  “It calls the police,” Lisa warned me, “so only hit it when that’s what you want to happen.”

  I admired their handiwork and told them I appreciated how they had fit it into their schedule as we walked back outside to their truck.

  “Hey, it’s for the community—can’t do it for free, but can do it more quickly,” Lisa said. “We going to see you at Torbin’s performance?”

  I managed a smile and said probably, but work was crazy so I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. I changed the subject by offering to hang out and train Rob and his staff on the new system.

  They didn’t argue. Lisa got on her motorcycle, leaving Valerie to drive the equipment truck. I’d be happy with the air-conditioned truck myself, but different tastes.

  A quick wave good-bye and I headed back to the bar and its high-octane air-conditioning.

  And a nice frosty beer.

  Chapter Seven

  I was good, just one beer. With a bottle of water to go with it. When it’s this humid, you have to remind yourself, the moisture in the air doesn’t mean moisture in the body. You still have to suck in the H2O.

  I had just finished instructing Mary on the system when Rob arrived and I went over it all again.

  Not a problem, I got to call it working, without having to get my brain out of second gear.

  Rob bought the second beer.

  I didn’t say no.

  Nor did I turn down the third, although I opted to get my usual burger and sweet potato fries to go with it. I ate sitting in the office,
watching the people go by on the camera monitors. Working, right?

  I would eat salad tomorrow.

  It was the usual flotsam and jetsam, tourists who looked lost, tourists who looked like they were looking for what Rampart Street offered, bartenders and waiters coming to or leaving work. Given the lingering heat and humidity, it was hard to tell which; a two-block walk could take the starch right out of the white waiter’s shirt. Clumps of the young out for an adventure.

  I took another bite.

  A woman alone. Familiar.

  But you’re dead, I thought. I hit the control that could take a still picture. Then my beer-befuddled brain woke up. I put down my almost finished last bite of burger, got to my feet, and rushed through the bar, slaloming around patrons and raised glasses.

  When I finally got outside, she was gone; a group of giggling young girls blocked the sidewalk, like no one else could possibly expect to walk on it.

  I pushed past them.

  Empty.

  I kept going, checked the next block. A few people hanging out on their doorstep about halfway down, but no woman alone.

  I trudged back to the bar. What had I really seen? I knew better than to drink when working, but I had done a wink and nod and pretended it wasn’t really work.

  A middle-aged woman with the same kind of haircut.

  I went back to the office to review the video, getting another bottle of water from Mary at the bar.

  Yes, I finished the postponed final bite.

  It took me a while to figure out the controls of this new system, how to review one tape while still recording what was going on.

  Was it her?

  Yeah. Maybe. No. Enough of a resemblance to not say no, but also too little detail to say yes.

  She was catching up to and then walking through the gaggle of sidewalk hogs I’d seen earlier. They blocked getting a good look at her until she was just walking under the camera. At that precise moment, she moved into the overhead light from the bar door, and it both changed the shadows on her face and washed it out, as the camera was set for the ambient light in most of its range.