“Two strangers started chatting?”
“It’s New Orleans, cher, we do that sort of thing.” Not a great story, but I wasn’t going to admit I was a private eye hired by someone who could be her sister to find her sister.
“So if you don’t want women for their money or their looks, what do you want them for?” She was probing, pushing me for a weak point—or one she’d consider weak.
“Their brains. The same thing I look for in a man. Brains, compassion. A sense of humor.”
“Really? Men and women? You swing both ways?”
“Not swinging tonight,” I countered. I wasn’t going to out myself here. Playing on the edges was one thing. We both understood neither of us was the frilly pink hetero girl. But how far beyond the line? Safer to leave it vague. Uncle Donnie was an old-fashioned gentleman—one who took care of the good women and took his rage out on the not good women. Even if Anmar Brande was gay, she wasn’t the power in the family. I’d find no alliance with her for admitting my sexuality.
“Then why come to this party?”
“Why are you here?”
“I live here, remember?”
“Doesn’t mean you have to appear. You could stay in your room and read a book.”
She laughed, but with no joy, as if I was suggesting something outrageously impossible. “My dad burned all my books when I finished high school. Said girls shouldn’t read, it made their eyes squint, and men didn’t like squinty-eyed girls.”
A piece of where she’d been broken slipped out. Then her face hardened again. “I’m required to attend the public events. One big, happy family.”
“Atlanta has a big airport. Why not fly away?”
“And do what? High school education. No job experience. At least nothing I can put on a résumé. Serve burgers and live in a double-wide?”
“You’d be free.”
“Free? Poverty has its shackles. Besides, it’s not as easy as you think it is.”
“I don’t think it would be easy. I’m just pointing out there are options.”
She leaned in closer to me and said in a harsh whisper, “You don’t understand. Women don’t leave the Brande family. If you’re not loyal, you’re worth nothing. If you’re a woman, you’re not worth much. A disloyal woman? We swim with the fishes.”
I kept my face as blank as I could. I knew the Brandes were a crime family, but I wasn’t supposed to know they were, not as the innocent house-sitter who just wandered by. “That sounds…”
“Crazy?”
“Well…extreme.”
“Two of my aunts disappeared. One married the wrong man. A cop. They both vanished. I asked Uncle Donnie about her once when I was young. He looked at me and said, ‘Don’t be like her.’ I got the message.”
“You are accusing your family of…murder?” I kept to my naïve house-sitter persona. Tried to, at least. And hoped the shadows covered for me.
“Two aunts I know of. Some great-aunts no one talks about. No one visits their graves. Or even knows where they are. Disloyal women are worth nothing. Now my twin is missing.”
“Was she—is she ‘disloyal’?” I asked.
“No more than I am. But she…she didn’t do a good enough job of playing one big happy family. Maybe that was enough.”
“That’s horrible,” I said.
She nodded, then looked away from me, as if she’d crossed lines she shouldn’t cross. And she had, if I’d been that house-sitter. There was a dead woman in New Orleans. And a family of men who disappeared their disloyal women. Chilling. I had no evidence of any of this, but it might be time for me to leave, dump this on Joanne and pretend I’d never been here. Anmar was broken—and scared, but I couldn’t do anything about that. I added, in a soft undertone, “I’m really sorry. I’m not going to…do anything that would make it worse for you. What you’ve said here—”
“No one will believe,” she said bluntly. We both knew she was right. Then she added, “I’d like to find my sister. If I come to New Orleans, would you take me to where you saw her?”
Oh, hell, no, my brain screamed. First, it was a lie. Second, the last thing I wanted was her coming to New Orleans, trailing her crime family behind her, especially since they had likely already killed her sister. And third…I was a coward. I didn’t want to deal with this broken woman, didn’t want to have to consider if I could help her; if I should help her.
Instead I said, “But can you travel?”
“Oh, yes. As long as I have a return ticket.”
“I can take you, but it was a random encounter. Millions of people traipse through the French Quarter every year.”
“It’s the only clue I have.”
“And it might not be her. I could be wrong.”
“You don’t strike me as a woman who’s often that wrong.”
The wide French doors to the patio opened. Light flared our way.
“Anna-Marie! Your dad wants to speak to you.” A man who looked vaguely like all the other Brande men called to her. He waited at the door, staring in our direction.
She turned away without saying another word and followed him into her prison.
I took a breath, then another. Then counted out a full minute before reentering the house. The yard had a high wall around it, and I could see no way to get out save through the front entrance. The Brandes didn’t build a wall that could be easily scaled. A glint from the lights showed glass shards embedded in the top.
Not wanting to appear like I was anything other than a party guest, I didn’t hurry. Stopped at the bar for another drink that would only be a prop. I also wanted to scan each room before fully entering. Better to avoid both Uncle Donnie and Anmar.
The media room still had sports blaring from every screen—all men’s, of course—and the testosterone seemed to leech from the TVs into the room as two groups of men were arguing, now shoving and on the verge of a fight.
I backtracked through the kitchen, mostly filled with the catering staff, who seemed to know something was off here and were seeking strength in numbers. I smiled at them, silently wishing them luck, and hoped they weren’t disloyal caterers. And that the shrimp dip had passed muster.
At least the yard here was too small for many bodies to be buried.
The grand marble foyer was still loud, made louder by another group of men arguing, but they were surrounded by the big-chested blond women, so it felt more for show than the edge of violence in the media room.
Wrong call. A woman shouted, “Jared! Jared, don’t be stupid.”
Presumably the person who was Jared threw a sloppy punch that only pissed off his opponent, who punched back, not at all sloppy, and Jared went down, saved from bashing his head on the marble by falling into three of the women, who went down with him. Oh, Jared, you had to be stupid.
As gracefully—and quickly—as I could, I sidled through the crowd, taking the long way to get around the back of them. I was at the door.
It was flung open. Three men, with three women draped on each, pushed through, expecting everyone to move away from them. I let them pass. This was not the time nor place to take on how men sucked up space.
I zoomed out of the door before someone else came through.
Drink still in hand as I hadn’t found a place to ditch it, I sauntered down the lawn, keeping my pace to that of the other partygoers out in the humid air.
“Leaving so soon?”
Shit. Uncle Donnie.
I held up the drink in my hand as if proof that I was still in party mode and said, “No, just getting some fresh air. It’s a beautiful night.”
“I heard you were talking to Mr. Brande’s daughter, Anna-Marie. She’s a special girl; we like to take care of her.”
“She came and talked to me, said you told her I thought she looked familiar.” He was there, he should remember that.
“Really? And what did you talk about?”
“That I saw someone in New Orleans who looked like her, but it wasn’t her, just
an odd resemblance. I was mistaken in thinking I’d even seen her before.”
“Michele. I didn’t get your last name,” he said taking a cigar from his jacket pocket. He was dressed for the cool indoors, not the muggy outside, a dark suit, open-necked blue shirt, all expensive and well made. I couldn’t detect the bulge of a gun, but I was sure it was there.
“Meraux.” I had to spell it for him. I had a business card for Michele Meraux, editor, in my wallet. Meraux is a small town downriver from New Orleans. It’s odd enough that people think it can’t be fake.
“And the friends you’re staying with?”
I was expecting that one. “The Silversteins. About eight blocks that way.” I pointed in the direction I had walked from. I kept my tone pleasant and light, not letting on that I knew this was an interrogation.
“How long are you staying?”
“About a week, less if my AC gets fixed sooner. Parts. They claim they’re waiting on parts.”
“So, what did Anna-Marie say to you?”
“Not much, just asked why I thought she looked familiar. I described chatting with a woman in the French Quarter about a cat in a shop window who looked like her, at least from across the room.”
“Looked like her how?”
“Up close, not so much, but from across the room, about the same height, similar hair color, slim build.”
“When did you see this woman?”
“I don’t know, a couple of weeks ago.”
“Where did you say you saw her?”
He was repeating his questions. Trying to catch me in discrepancies or to add more details. I had to be careful to keep my lies straight. “In the French Quarter section of New Orleans.”
“You live around there?”
“No, I work in the CBD—Central Business District—and I often walk there around lunch or after work.”
“What made you think she looked like Anna-Marie?”
Past tense. He didn’t seem aware. “I didn’t think she looked like Anna-Marie. I merely thought Anna-Marie looked like her from across the room. Up close, she and the other woman didn’t look as much alike.” Before he could ask another question, I continued, “Why all this interest in a random stranger who looks like Anna-Marie?” I wanted him to be answering now—and to put him on notice that his questions were odd. At least to someone like I was purported to be.
Donnie sighed, then lit his cigar and puffed on it. Sweat was forming on his brow. I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Anna-Marie has a twin sister. We are trying to find her.”
“You think she might be in New Orleans?”
“We don’t know. It’s possible.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“Long enough for us to be worried.”
He was good at evading exact answers.
“What do the police say?”
He looked at me. “The police?”
“You’ve reported her missing, right?”
Going to the police was not something the Brande family did. He took another puff on the cigar. “She’s an adult. The police don’t care.” He didn’t look at me as he said it. Not as good a liar as he thought he was.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. You must be worried. But I’m pretty sure the woman I saw in New Orleans only has a superficial resemblance to Anna-Marie, not close enough to be her twin.” I added, “I’m sorry, I can see you were hoping it was.” As if they were really looking for her and concerned about her well-being.
He gave a smile that was only movement of the muscles around his mouth. “I’m sure she’ll turn up; she always does.”
“I certainly hope so. That has to be a scary thing for a family. How long is she usually gone for?”
“Donald.” A low croak of a voice, an old man who had smoked many cigars. I hadn’t heard his approach. That worried me. “Don’t bore our guests with tiresome family stories.”
I turned to him. The look on Donnie’s face told me this was the head of the Brande family. He was in his seventies, maybe upper sixties, the years of wafting smoke and boozy nights aging his face. He was tall with broad shoulders, but they now slumped into age and a body that spent more time smoking and drinking than moving.
What scared me the most was the anger in his eyes. It was well hidden from his facial muscles, a contained fury.
“Ellis,” Donald said. “It’s late for you.”
“You think because I’m an old man, I should be in bed with hot milk?” he snapped. “I can keep up with the young ones. The most beautiful women come to me.”
“Of course they do.” Donnie placated him. “They recognize a truly strong man.”
Strong because he had money and power. How long would he hold on to that? How many younger Brande men were waiting for him to stumble and fall? His anger wasn’t just at Donnie speaking too freely but a world that was slipping from his control, his body aging, irrevocably taking from him all he cared about.
“I should probably go,” I said.
He gripped my elbow, deliberately too tight, grinding his fingers into my arm. “Yes, you should go. Donnie and I need to talk.”
“Ellis, it’s okay,” Donnie said. “I’ll walk her back to where she’s staying.”
“That’s not necessary. This is a safe enough neighborhood,” I said. I wanted no escorts.
“I’ll have one of the boys walk her. You and I need to talk.”
He let go of my elbow. I felt my blood flow return. He put a hand on Donnie’s shoulder, control. But also weakness, to help balance and steady him. It only added to the fury in his eyes.
“Wait here,” Donnie told me. “Someone will be with you shortly.”
I nodded like the good girl I was supposed to be, then watched through the corner of my eye as they entered the house, going around the side to a hidden entrance.
As if she had been watching, Anna-Marie came from the main door. She looked at the people out here, checking them out, then crossed to me. With one final look over her shoulder she looked at me, then handed me a card and said, “Call me.” She quickly turned and walked away.
This is all too bizarre. I put my drink on the ground—no other place to set it—and headed down the driveway. I got about ten feet before I heard footsteps behind me.
A hand on my shoulder. One of the boys. “I got to walk you to your house.”
He was probably what Ellis looked like in his twenties. Strong, confident his strength could take on the world. Dark brown hair, hazel eyes, the look I was recognizing as Brande family.
I stepped away from his hand. “That’s not really necessary,” I said.
“It’s dark. Never know what might happen in the dark.” He smirked. He was the kind of person who made bad things happen in the dark.
“Fine, but it’s a bit of a hike,” I said, heading down the driveway to the street, taking long steps at a fast pace.
“Whatever you say,” he answered, keeping pace. Even if he wasn’t a gym rat—and his muscles proved he worked out with weights, if not cardio—he was young and I wasn’t.
The earlier crowd out here was gone, only a few straggling smokers and one couple that thought they were better hidden by the trees than they were. My escort sniggered at them.
Try to chat him up, make him think you’re harmless. “Why did you get stuck with making sure the old ladies get home safe?” I asked, keeping my tone light and friendly.
“I do what I’m told.”
“It looks like a fun party.”
I walked past my rental car, alas on the other side of the road, otherwise I might have stumbled into it and hit the alarm on the key fob at the same time as a distraction.
“Yeah, it’s a fun party,” he said. “I was about to get my dick sucked down in the basement.”
Oh. So that’s how this is going to be. You’re going to do your best to shock me and make sure I’m aware of what a manly man you are. He was also drunk enough to loosen every inhibition he might have had.
> “Perhaps that’s what you should do, then,” I said, as if talking about the weather. “You really don’t need to follow me home.”
“This isn’t about what you need,” he retorted. I hadn’t been upset enough for him, so he was getting angry.
I stopped at the corner. “In fact, I’d prefer you not.”
He still smirked but with a sheen of resentment behind it. “Your preferences don’t count.”
I headed up the steepest of the streets, pushing the pace as much as I could. Halfway up, I heard his heavy breathing.
Of course, I was also feeling the strain. New Orleans isn’t known for its hills, and even a good workout on the elliptical at the gym doesn’t prepare you for this.
“How far we got to go?” he demanded.
“Another eight blocks.”
“Fuck this,” he muttered.
I stopped again. “Then go back. You say you walked me home. I’m not going to tell anyone otherwise.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
“I’m not. It was a suggestion.” I strode uphill, trying to keep a few feet between us.
Another two blocks. He was cursing under his breath.
“We’d better be close, bitch,” he said as we passed another corner.
“About another six blocks,” I said.
“How fucking far is that?”
The blocks were long and windy here. “About another mile.”
“You walked it?”
“Indeed. I like walking.”
“Fuck this.” He lunged at me, grabbing my upper arm. “End of the road, bitch.”
I had been expecting this, so as much as possible, I was prepared. Clearly his job wasn’t seeing me safely home but to take care of me and make sure I got the message not to talk about the Brandes. He got to choose how to deliver it.
I fell back as if pushed by him, enough that he had to overbalance to keep his hand on me. He was not expecting a judo move from an old lady like me. I jerked him further off-balance, planted a foot on his stomach at the same time I went down (veering enough to land on the grass and not the sidewalk). My momentum and his, with my leg in his stomach also thrusting up, sent him flying through the air and landing hard on his back.
Not Dead Enough Page 11