Sage winked as she went back behind the counter. “At your service any time, pretty girl.”
“Thanks, Sage.” Roxy almost skipped outside and, as she walked the short path to the street, quickly typed Lamontagne Promotions into her phone. She put the address straight into her maps app and found it was only a 15-minute walk. She wouldn’t call first, she’d only get brushed off. On her way, she stopped to pick up a free daily paper from a stand on the sidewalk and stuffed it in her bag. She’d read it later.
When she arrived at the address, she craned her neck to peer upwards. Lamontagne Promotions was located in a very tall, art-deco-style building. Turquoise windows and gold chevron detailing on the shining stone façade distinguished it from the chrome and mirrored glass buildings around it. Roxy pushed her way through the gold and green rotating door into the gleaming lobby, suddenly feeling nervous in her sweater, jeans, and tennis shoes. She looked very out of place among the people walking purposefully through the reception area. All the women wore skirts or pantsuits, sleek up-dos or bouncing waves, a full face of makeup and high heels. The men were just as sharp in their tailored suits and shiny brogues. It seemed no one edgy or unconventional worked for this company, and certainly no one scruffy.
But Roxy wasn’t about to fall prey to feeling awkward or bad about herself as she’d done so many times before. This was a new season. She held her chin a little higher, pulled her shoulders back, and put on a big smile as she walked toward the reception desk. She arranged her face into an expression that she hoped was nonchalant as she leaned against the high table and said casually, “I’m here to see Royston.”
The receptionist who was groomed to within an inch of her life looked at her closely. Roxy was glad there was a desk between them. The woman couldn’t see how beat up her tennis shoes were. “Yes, madam. And you are…?”
“Roxy Reinhardt. I’m the owner of the Funky Cat Inn. Royston and I are involved in some business.” Technically, this was true. Murder was a business alright.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“OKAY, LET ME call his office.” The receptionist carefully pressed the numbers on her phone with the pads of her manicured fingers. Despite her efforts to protect them, her long nails made clicking sounds against the phone’s glass surface. She listened in to the receiver. Her perfectly symmetrical, tattooed eyebrows drew closer together just a smidgeon, and her long false eyelashes batted like exotic fans as she blinked before speaking to Roxy once more. “He’s in a meeting at the moment.” She eyed Roxy, considering. Roxy held her gaze almost, but not quite. The woman’s oversized eyelashes were extremely distracting. “Go upstairs. You can wait in the lobby there. He might finish up and agree to see you when he’s done,” the receptionist finished. Roxy took off before the woman could change her mind.
“The elevators are over there,” the receptionist called after her, pointing in the opposite direction. “He’s on the top floor.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Roxy, feeling silly, caught sight of the golden pair of elevators a little way down from the reception desk. She walked over with as much dignity as she could muster and waited for the elevator to arrive. There was a ping, and the doors opened. Roxy got in and scanned the buttons. There were 10 floors. She hit the button on the elevator panel and began her ascent.
As soon as the elevator doors opened, Roxy was startled to find that she was in full view of another receptionist who sat behind a big desk, facing her. The woman, who had a bottle-blonde, topknot hairdo, stared at her with shrewd and unfriendly blue eyes. Roxy strode toward her appearing much more confident than she felt.
“I’m here to see Royston. We are involved in a business.”
“I am Mr. Lamontagne’s assistant, and you don’t have an appointment,” the woman snapped. “Who are you?”
“I am Roxy Reinhardt,” Roxy said holding this woman’s gaze much more easily. Her eyelashes were her own. “Owner of the Funky Cat Inn.”
“I’ve never heard of it,” the woman said snootily. “And if I haven’t, Mr. Lamontagne won’t have, either.”
The woman radiated aggression. Roxy clenched her fists, summoning her courage, and tried again. “I’m a friend of a friend.”
“Mr. Lamontagne doesn’t much believe in friends. In fact, he doesn’t have any. Business associates, only.” The woman folded her arms. “Listen, I need you to be very clear. Explain to me why you are here. Am I meant to disturb Mr. Lamontagne because you’re here to sell him Girl Scout cookies or something? If you have a demo, you can just leave it in that box, and I’ll give it to him.” She pointed to a box on the desk. Roxy looked at it. Royston Lamontagne either received a lot of music demos or his secretary didn’t empty the box very often. It was full of thumb drives.
Roxy itched to give this rude, officious woman a piece of her mind, but she managed to hold her tongue. “I’m here about the murder of Meredith Romanoff.”
“What murder? Oh, that….” The assistant frowned and peered at Roxy. “You’re not the police?” Roxy stared back at her, neither confirming nor denying her question. “I think I’d better call the legal department,” the woman said picking up her phone.
“No,” said Roxy quickly. “I just want two minutes of Mr. Lamontagne’s time.”
“He doesn’t have two minutes. Every minute of his day is accounted for and scheduled.” The receptionist leaned on her desk, her arms still crossed. She looked incredibly pleased with herself as if she’d got Roxy in a “gotcha” like the cat who got all the cream.
“Okay, one minute then. Please. It’s important.”
“You’re rather persistent, aren’t you? You show up here uninvited, without an appointment, you lie about being a friend of Mr. Lamontagne, and you are connected to the murder of a medium. You sound like the last person to whom I should offer Mr. Lamontagne’s invaluable time.”
Roxy opened her eyes a little wider. “Please?”
The woman sighed. “Fine. I can’t promise anything, but if you’re desperate, you can wait over there. I’ll see if he’ll give you a couple of seconds between items on his schedule.”
“Thank you,” Roxy said. She looked to her left where there were several leather armchairs and a coffee table with glossy brochures arranged carefully across the top. She walked over and sat down. For a few minutes, Roxy did nothing, and as she waited, she began to feel nervous. Her foot jiggled as she traced her finger in patterns on the arm of the chair.
From the coffee table, she picked up a brochure entitled Lamontagne Promotions News, a large, glossy, trifold brochure. Roxy skimmed through it. Across the front was emblazoned a picture of a group of young men standing on a street corner looking dangerously louche. They wore big chains, rings, and belts. On their heads were knitted beanies or baseball caps on backward. The subheading under the picture announced that they were rappers nominated for an industry award. Next to this, in parentheses, it said Management: Lamontagne Promotions. Inside the brochure, there was another image, this time of a jazz quintet playing in a club. It was labeled with the group name, Dirk West Five and also had the Lamontagne Promotions notation in the corner.
Roxy looked up the company on her phone again. This time she navigated to a website. There she learned that Royston Lamontagne was a music promoter specializing in rap, jazz, and soul. He managed nascent but talented groups and solo artists and seemed to have fingers in many music-related pies. His company listed club ownership, tour management, a record label, and music festival organization as just a few of its activities. In fact, anything related to music in the South seemed to involve Lamontagne somehow.
As she read the website, Roxy remembered something she’d seen on the front page of the newspaper she’d picked up earlier. She pulled it out of her bag. The front-page headline read Label Languishes After Voodoo Vexation. The paper reported that a deal to sign a rapper to the Lamontagne music label had fallen through after magic was reportedly used by a competitor to scupper the deal. According to the reporting, losing the
signing had cost the label hundreds of thousands of dollars, and now it was even rumored to be struggling to stay afloat.
Roxy read the article twice over before the sound of voices disturbed her. She looked up to see the assistant talking to her boss, Royston Lamontagne. He still had his little dog under his arm! Lamontagne and his assistant muttered, their heads together before they looked over and the assistant pointed at Roxy. The big man quickly shook his head and disappeared into the room behind his assistant’s desk.
Roxy stood as the woman wiggled over in her tight pencil skirt, a barely concealed smirk on her face. “Sorry,” she said insincerely. “He said he’s far too busy to see you, and you’ll have to make an appointment. The next we have available is in six weeks.”
“Six weeks!”
“Mr. Lamontagne is a very busy man.”
“So I gather,” said Roxy. Six weeks was far too long, though. By then the murder investigation would be long wrapped, and if things didn’t change, Dr. Jack would be in prison. “Is there not any way I can get squeezed in sooner? I’m willing to meet him somewhere else, wherever’s convenient.”
“I’m afraid not.” The woman’s voice was as smooth and syrupy as molasses. “The elevator is over there,” she pointed.
It was rare that anyone could make Roxy feel small anymore, but this receptionist was certainly trying her very best. “Okay,” Roxy said, getting up. She stuffed the newspaper and glossy brochure into her bag. “Thank you for your help.”
“You’re so welcome. Anytime. Well, six weeks’ time.” The assistant giggled and wiggled off.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“WHAT WOULD YOU like to do tonight, Charles?” Roxy asked.
George and Charles were slumped in armchairs in the lounge. George was flicking through a New Orleans guide on Voodoo, vampires, graveyards, and ghosts, but Charles leaned on his elbow, chin on his hand, staring into space.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Anything that you want to do, George?”
“I think we need to get out. Why don’t we have dinner in a restaurant, and then head to the Palace of Spirits? Let’s all of us go. The two of us are sad sacks. A few friends will take us out of ourselves.”
“I think Meredith mentioned that place,” said Charles. “She…” he sighed heavily, “…said it was probably just a tourist trap.”
“But still, I’d like to visit. It’s a museum located in the former home of Marie Laveau’s aunt,” George countered.
“Who?”
“Marie Laveau. She was the famous Voodoo Queen.”
“Perhaps she can exert some spiritual influence from beyond the grave and ensure justice for Meredith.” Charles jiggled his hands in front of him. He was joking, but George’s eyes lit up.
“Yeah, she might!”
“Evangeline, the old owner of this place, believes in all that,” said Nat, walking in the room and overhearing the tail end of their conversation. “She said her mother used to visit Marie Laveau’s grave and had plenty a wish granted by the old girl’s spirit. Perhaps she’ll go with you. Or Sage. They could act as tour guides.”
George smiled warmly. “I knew you’d understand.”
Nat would normally have been the last person to understand, but around George, she seemed somewhat different. Softer.
They decided to go to Bramwell’s on St. Charles Avenue, an upscale Creole restaurant that was one of the most expensive in town.
“In Meredith’s honor,” said Charles, “Our treat.”
Sage joined them. She took some persuading.
“I’m busy working with the angels on Dr. Jack’s behalf, honey,” she told Roxy. “I don’t think they’d appreciate me taking the night off.”
“Nonsense. Ask them for guidance, they’ll tell you what to do. Isn’t that what you tell me?”
Sage sighed. “Yes, you’re right.” She paused and appeared to stare blankly at the wall although Roxy knew her mind was with the angels. “Okay, they’re saying yes. I’ll come.”
Evangeline couldn’t make it. “I’ve just got myself a new puppy, cher,” she said down the phone. “I’ve been wantin’ one for ages, and now I don’t have guests to look after, I have the chance. I’ve called ‘im Pinkie after his ridiculous pink ears. He’s a French pug, don’t ‘cha know!” Roxy heard some snuffling. “Shush, shush, now Pinkie-winkie. Mommy on the phone,” she heard Evangeline coo. Roxy’s eyes widened. “I can’t leave him,” Evangeline added.
“Of course. He sounds adorable.” Roxy wondered if Evangeline had taken leave of her senses. Training a new puppy was a lot of work and a French pug? They were a handful. But she could still hear Evangeline talking to her pup with a voice full of love. Roxy left her to it.
“Of course I’ll come!” Elijah said when she asked him. “I know the maître d.”
“Is there a maître d or restaurant owner you don’t know in New Orleans, Elijah?”
“Hmmm, let me think.” Elijah tapped his finger against his cheek and looked up to the ceiling as he thought for a moment. “Nope,” he said pointing his forefinger at Roxy. “I know them all. Now, what time are we going? Do you want me to get us a table? They’re often booked up, but I’ll sweet talk Mateo.”
Sam agreed to join them, and so it was Roxy, Sage, Nat, Elijah, Sam, George, and Charles for the evening. They dressed in all their finery. Roxy finally got to wear the royal blue one-shoulder dress she’d found in a vintage clothing store on Magazine Street a few weeks back. Sage wore her trademark robes, this time in bright mango, a matching scarf wrapped around her head. The men wore sharp suits, Elijah toning down his appearance this time with a forest green ensemble. But the surprise of the evening was Nat. She wore a black t-shirt, nothing new there, but this one was flecked with diamante and—she was wearing a skirt!
It was true that the skirt reached her ankles from beneath which poked some patent, night-blue Doc Martens, but still—a skirt! Also, she was curiously wearing some long, elaborate—but delicate and feminine—silver earrings in addition to the cuffs, bars, and studs that curled around her outer ears. Roxy quickly recovered from her astonishment and linked her arm in Nat’s. “Ready, girlfriend?”
“Ready, boss. I’ve fixed Nefertiti her own feast, cooked chicken and kibble, and left it for her in the courtyard. Maybe that ginger tom will come by and make it a romantic meal.”
“Maybe,” Roxy said wondering what had come over her friend.
They piled into a luxurious black minivan and soon arrived at Bramwell’s. It was housed in a magnificent, traditional New Orleans mansion. It was painted white. On all sides of the building were huge floor-to-ceiling leaded windows and black shutters across two stories. Pairs of pillars supported an elaborate wrought-iron balcony on the second floor that wrapped its way around the mansion and provided outdoor dining for the restaurant’s clientele. Downstairs, noise from the busy, chattering diners poured out of the open windows and onto the green lawns outside. On the third floor, more windows jutted from the roof.
Inside, a fireplace with a huge, dark, oak surround reached to the ceiling, dominating the entryway. Lights cast by the colored, leaded glass in the windows gave the reception a warm, muted, early-evening glow. In the dining room, the interior walls and ceiling were painted a muted sage green with white paneling detail, white majestic columns, and white tablecloths. An elegantly tiled floor was marked in a black and white checkered pattern.
As Elijah had predicted, the restaurant was full, the air humming with the sounds of diners.
“Mateo, we are here!” Elijah swept up to the welcome station. An older, distinguished man in a tuxedo gave him a small bow, the glow of the lights bouncing off his oiled salt and pepper hair.
“Good evening and welcome to Bramwell’s. Sir, I have a special table ready for you, as you requested. Please,” he said, looking at the group, “come with me.”
Led by the maître d, they wound themselves around the restaurant tables to a small private back room. The other diners pa
id them no heed as they passed, but Roxy looked around as she walked. Bramwell’s dress code was certainly formal. No one in the restaurant was casually dressed. The women wore floor-skimming, shiny dresses with big, expensive jewelry while most of the men wore tuxedos. Through the air came the warm, delicate sounds of mellow jazz. A man in a white tux sat at a white grand piano, his fingers dancing across the keys effortlessly.
“Wow,” said Nat, whispering in Roxy’s ear. “You sure they’ll let us eat here? It’s super schmancy.”
Roxy laughed. “We just came from the Funky Cat,” she whispered back. “We’re schmancy too, remember!”
Roxy was looking forward to the evening. She glided into the seat that the maître d’ pulled out for her. He picked up her napkin, shook it out with a flourish, and laid it on her lap. Sam, catching her eye from across the table, gave her a small smile.
“Here is your waiter, Mesdames et Messieurs. “Let him know if you need anything. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you, we will,” said Roxy.
“Thank you, Mateo,” Elijah said, winking at him.
Despite the heavy circumstances, the evening turned out to be a glorious form of escapism. The food was extraordinary. The menu comprised haute cuisine with a Creole twist. For her appetizer, Roxy ordered Louisiana lump crab with avocado and a hard-boiled egg topped with gribiche dressing on top of homemade seeded bread. She followed that with an entrée of slow-roasted duck soaked in an orange-sherry sauce. As they ate, they talked about everything except the murder, everything except Meredith. Mostly, Sam, Sage, and Elijah, the three native New Orleanians told the four non-natives tales of the city.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“SO,” SAID GEORGE, sipping on his turtle soup. “What do you know about Marie Laveau? Or any type of Voodoo?”
Roxy Reinhardt Mysteries Box Set Page 40