Dead Heat

by Linda Barnes

  Aunt Mary pushed a wayward curl off her forehead. “How detailed do you want me to get?”

  “If you’re too tired—”

  “If I did it for the police, I can do it for you. It’s just that I don’t know if I’m remembering what happened, or parroting what I told the police. It’s all muddled.”

  Exactly, Spraggue thought. Just what that cop should have known. The first time is always the hardest. The second time, you turn into a bad actor, repeating the words instead of reliving the action.

  “Close your eyes,” he said gently, “and put yourself back into the time right before the banquet.”

  “Actor stuff,” Mary said, suspiciously.

  “Yep,” Spraggue said. “It works.”

  “I feel silly. Like I’m pretending to go off into a trance.”

  “Try it.”

  Mary pressed her hands against her head. “Michael, it’s all whirling and confused—colors and lights and people—”

  “You’re doing too much at once. Where were you when you first saw Dora on Thursday night?”

  “Let me see … She knocked on my door, a quiet sort of knock. I was early, already dressed in my gray suit, this one. I remember I had trouble tying the bow, but finally it came out right. I was sitting on the sofa, hoping I wouldn’t wrinkle—the suit, that is. I was—”

  “Try it in the present tense, Aunt Mary. I am—” Spraggue kept his voice low, unobtrusive, an “actor-coaching” voice. He remembered the first director who had used it on him, back in his Royal Academy of Dramatic Art days. After a while it became part of you, a subconscious voice … part of you, and separate.

  “I am reading Lillian Hellman. Pentimento. And Dora knocks. I’m expecting the knock. Hoping she’ll tell me more about this ‘conversation’ I’m supposed to note so carefully. I open the door. She looks very nice. No makeup, but a touch of lipstick, which means she considers the occasion as formal as an occasion can be—and she’s wearing her beige crepe dress. A very good dress, must have cost a great deal, but not her color at all. Just one of Dora’s fade-into-the-background outfits.…”

  “Does she come in?” The words slipped in easily, prompting, but not breaking the flow of information.

  “She says we should start on down. The banquet is in the grand ballroom, on the mezzanine. My suite is on the sixth floor. I remember looking—no, I look into the mirror while we’re waiting for the elevator, and Dora’s face seems, oh, kind of strained and gray. I put my hand on her shoulder, and, Michael, she clutches my arm, holds it so hard I wince. But then her grip loosens. Still, she keeps her hand on my arm—here—as if I’m her anchor, as if she’s a little girl afraid of getting lost in the crowd.… And there was—”

  “Is, Aunt Mary.”

  “There is a crowd. People streaming up the staircase, all the men wearing dinner jackets, some of the women in long gowns. Flashes of jewelry. Spurts of conversation and laughter. There’s a rather unruly mob in front of the doorway. It’s not wide enough to accommodate the flow of guests. There’s a coat rack filled with coats and I smile because no one in the North would wear a wrap on such a balmy evening.”

  “Dora, does she speak to anyone?”

  “Not a soul. She clings to me, and I say what a beautiful room it is and things like that, to try to put her at ease. It is a lovely room, all gold and ivory, with a pink-and-gold carpet. The chandeliers must have been cleaned the day before. So sparkly and bright. Ten, maybe twelve round tables, and one large rectangular table, raised on a dias. White tablecloths and pointy folded napkins. Cut-glass vases bursting with yellow roses.…

  “There is an archway into another room, a smaller room hung with banners and signs. The display room. Full of cookware, pots and pans, and food processors and whisks. Knives …” Her voice faltered. “I want to look, but Dora pulls me to our table. She’s still so quiet.”

  “How did you know which was your table?”

  “Dora knew. It was as though she was taking steps she’d rehearsed before. We were—are—at Table One, which surprises me. Not the big rectangular table, but the one closest to it, on its right. The big table is for the judges and the master of ceremonies. Our table is filled with big shots. Denise Michel herself is there. She’s the host of the entire event, and the chef in charge of tonight’s meal. A huge woman. Not fat, but tall. Six feet, maybe more. Solid. Strong craggy face, beaky nose. Quick smile. I like her. I like her handshake and her deep voice. She takes over from Dora and introduces me to the others.

  “Michael, there’s a whole flock of strangers. You know how I hate things like that. I smile and nod and only get them sorted out much later. Four are chefs, five counting Dora. Five chefs. Me. That’s six. There are eight at the table. That leaves two more. Oh, you know who was there, sitting right across from me? That food columnist-critic fellow, what’s-his-name? You can’t turn on the TV without seeing the man. Harris Hampton, that’s the name. A disgusting man, really. So smug and superior. Fat and loud and, oh, kind of smarmy. Too genial by half, like some foot-in-the-door encyclopedia salesman. You can tell that no one at the table likes him. And every once in a while he takes this notebook out of his pocket and makes some sort of scribble about the food. Very secretively, you know, like a precocious second-grader guarding his spelling test.”

  “Who else is at your table?”

  “Let me see. Five chefs! Me. The horrible food critic. And there’s one spouse, also a chef, but I get the feeling she’s not really in the same league as the rest. Jeannine Fontenot. Joseph’s wife. Buxom. Dark-eyed. Quite handsome. Wearing very regal burgundy silk. She’s quiet, possibly a little shy.”

  “Tell me about the chefs.”

  “Denise Michel, I’ve already described. And Dora. Paul Armand. Taller even than Denise. Thin. Very distinguished. Continental manners. You’ve tasted his food. He owns the Café Creole.”

  “Mmmmmm.”

  “Indeed. Then there’s Henri Fiorici, from Fiorici’s in New York. I don’t know if he happened to be in town or if he came down for the dinner. One of those tiny vain men. A popinjay. Scarlet cummerbund and polka-dot bow tie. Very dapper. And so polite. He keeps trying to smooth over all the awkwardnesses—But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  “The last chef is Joseph Fontenot. A fat, ugly man. No, I shouldn’t say ugly. He’s hiding behind a bushy mustache and heavy glasses, and he seems ungainly because he walks with a cane. But he might have been attractive if it weren’t for the way he argued. And now when I think of him, I keep seeing him dead.”

  “Mary, maybe you ought to take a break—”

  “Don’t treat me like some elderly aunt,” she snapped. “We’ll just skip any more comment on Joseph Fontenot and I’ll go on to the conversation.

  “Well, first it’s desultory, bursts and silences. Fontenot says something about a funeral, the funeral of an old friend, I think, and that goes over like a brick. No one wants to discuss death over dinner. Someone chimes in with a story about vegetables, how hard it is to get good fresh vegetables anymore. I get the feeling that everyone else knows why we’ve been chosen to sit together. You know, usually at a big affair, they seat everyone from Peoria together, or everyone who holds office. And after a bit, I decide that all the people at our table, except me, of course, must have been involved in some sort of seminar that afternoon. Because they start an argument, and I get the feeling that it’s a continuation of one that’s been going on for some time.”

  “What about?”

  “Food processors and knives and graters. It seems a traditional Luddite-versus-Progressive battle to me. And I keep wondering why Dora should want me to take special note of whether Joseph Fontenot prefers puréeing through cheesecloth to blending in a Cuisinart—Mr. Fontenot is very vocal in all his opinions and seems to believe he has a direct line to the God-in-Charge-of-Food. Well, I’m keeping track of everyone’s rambling, when over the entrée—a trout almondine even murder couldn’t make me forget, one of those traditional New Orlea
ns deep-fried trout, perfectly done with a lemony tang—Dora sort of pokes me in the ribs. It’s the signal that I should start my careful listening. I’m a bit indignant, having already absorbed all that food processor rigamarole, but I’m also intrigued, so I rev up my concentration.

  “Denise Michel starts asking questions. Now Denise is not a social butterfly. She is formidable. Each time a dish comes, she tastes it first, and I get the distinct impression that she disapproves of all this chitchat. It detracts from the food. Which is spectacular. Do you want to hear more about the food?”

  “Later. They fed me a sawdust omelette on the airplane.”

  “Sorry. Denise puts down her fork and knife and begins a formal inquisition. Her target is Joseph Fontenot, although every now and again she’ll aim a question at Fontenot’s wife. And it’s obvious that the whole thing is planned. I mean, the woman has no social graces at all. She doesn’t toss these questions into a general flow of wondering how everyone got started in the business. No, she just baldly demands answers. How long have you been married? How long have you lived in New Orleans? Where did you work in 1962? ’Sixty-four? ’Sixty-six? I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Does Fontenot?”

  “I think so.” Mary sat very still. “Yes. I think it amuses him.”

  “And Dora?”

  “Keeps getting paler and paler. She’s next to me, so I can’t see her all the time, but once she squeezes my hand under the table, and her fingers are icy.”

  “Go on.”

  “Denise leads him through this catechism and when he’s fed up with it, he stands. Doesn’t even finish his trout, which Denise takes as an insult. Says something about greeting a friend at another table. Takes off. I’m relieved. I catch Fiorici’s eye and I can see he’s relieved as well. He smiles and tries to talk to Dora, something about old times in New York. But Dora is practically mute. Denise returns to scrutinizing the salad. A few of the others, after they’ve finished their fish and complimented Denise, take off to socialize, but they all come back quite swiftly. None of us really notice that Fontenot hasn’t returned until dessert is served. You’ve heard of Michel’s soufflés? She’s made individual raspberry and white chocolate soufflés, and they are spectacular, white and pink like the room, garnished with sprigs of mint. Someone at the head table starts applauding when the trays come out, and Denise blushes brick-red, not at all attractive, you know. And we keep applauding until she stands up. You can tell how pleased she is, even though she’s embarrassed. The desserts are served and then we have a problem. You see, our table is polite. We’ve made a habit of waiting until all eight of us are served to pick up our spoons and forks and dig in. But Joseph Fontenot is not there. Mrs. Fontenot giggles and urges us to go ahead without him. But Denise glowers. So we sit. And it gets quite uncomfortable. And then after a minute or two, Dora bolts. She looks unwell and I ask if she’s all right, and she summons up a ghost of a smile and begs me please, not to dérange myself. So now we have six squirming diners and eight soufflés that are about to topple.

  “Denise gives in, picks up her fork, and we all plunge in with many compliments. The soufflés are marvelous. But Fontenot’s is just sitting there, listing to one side—well, it’s awkward. And I decide the man ought to come back and eat. Me, the avenging angel. He shouldn’t be so rude to his hostess. I didn’t realize I had so much of the nursery governess in me.”

  Spraggue smiled.

  “I excuse myself, saying I want to check on Dora, which isn’t exactly a lie. I do go into the ladies’ room, but she’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “I don’t search the stalls. But I call her name and she doesn’t answer.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well I go into the display room. I don’t see Fontenot in the banquet hall, but I could have missed him. People are milling about. The display room seems peaceful and I want a moment to think and, well, I want to see the items on display. So I justify it to myself, saying I’m searching for Fontenot.”

  “And?”

  Mary’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I find him”

  “Be very specific now, Aunt Mary. Tell me what you see and touch and hear and smell …”

  “The room is dark. The lights must have been on a rheostat and they’re turned down low. It’s eerie, with all those pots and pans hanging overhead. Shadowy. The drapes and the hangings eat up all the noise. The banquet room seems miles away instead of just through the archway. Everything’s glittery, copper and brass and aluminum. Maybe I’ve had a bit much to drink.”

  “Go on.”

  “I kick something. It frightens me. I’m wearing open-toed sandals and I have visions of rodenty creatures. I look down and there’s this small leather bag, like a tobacco pouch. I pick it up and realize it isn’t tobacco …”

  “Why?”

  “You can’t open it. It’s sewn shut. And the smell. Sweet. Pungent. Like herbs. A strange smell …”

  “And then?”

  “I look down at the carpet, I imagine to see if there’s anything else there. And the skirt of a display table is crooked. All the tables are swathed in that red-and-white-checked French peasant cloth. I think I’ll straighten the fabric and I see something … something so wrong my heart just stops, seems really to stop.”

  “What do you see?”

  “A shoe. One large black shoe. And it’s at an angle, sticking up, so it can’t be empty.”

  “Go on,” Spraggue said gently. “What do you do?”

  “I lift a corner of the cloth, tentatively, with my thumb and my forefinger.” Her hands moved but she seemed unaware of it. “I bend down. The light is very bad.”

  “And?”

  “He’s there. I find him.”

  “Joseph Fontenot.”

  “Yes,” Mary said. “With a knife in his chest.”

  THREE

  “She confess?”

  The paunchy cop gave the question the same emphasis he might have given a request for the time of day. He had kicked the door to the office open, his hands balancing two brown paper sacks and a thermos bottle clutched to his stomach. He didn’t seem surprised to find Spraggue seated behind the desk.

  “Nah,” the cop said, when Spraggue made an effort to stand. “Sit. It’s the only decent place to park your ass in this office. I’ll set here on the file cabinet. Lieutenant uses the visitor’s chair for torture. Shoulda been a special provision against it in the Miranda rules. Your aunt go home?”

  “She filled me in a little, then went back to the hotel.”

  “Too bad. Fine-looking woman. I’m Rawlins, by the way. Detective Sergeant Rawlins.”

  “Michael Spraggue.”

  “Well, since your aunt took off, how about if I feed you instead, and then you tell her what a fine cook I am.”

  “What about Dora’s bail?”

  “Your fancy attorney’s attending to it. You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Which one?”

  “She confess?”

  “I advised her to tell you exactly what she told me,” Spraggue said.

  Rawlins’ eyes narrowed, but his voice stayed unconcerned. “You mean about her secret marriage to Fontenot?”

  “Was it a secret to you?” Spraggue asked. “Or did you already know?”

  Rawlins snorted, busied himself removing things from the paper bags. “You eat lunch?” he asked.

  “No.”

  When the first bag was empty Rawlins ripped it in half, using the edge of the desk as a paper cutter and spreading the raggedy brown paper across the stained desk blotter. One tablecloth.

  “I got about an hour before the lieutenant comes back and I figure to hide out in here and eat my lunch. I always bring plenty and you’re welcome to join me.”

  “My stomach hasn’t figured out what time zone it’s in yet. I think I’ll pass,” Spraggue said.

  Rawlins removed the cracked red plastic top of the thermos jar and unscrewed the inner seal. He took a big spoon out o
f the other paper bag, and dished half a white paper goldfish container of rice into the thermos cup. The stuff he poured from the thermos into the red plastic top was basically red, dotted with slivers of green pepper and translucent hunks of onion. It had a smell that grabbed the back of the throat.

  “If you want some, just holler,” Rawlins said. “It’s a gumbo. I make it by the potful and bring it in here. The boys say it melts their teeth, but it’s mild to me. It’s the cayenne pepper that does that.”

  “You make it yourself?”

  “That’s what I said. I’m a lone wolf now. Your aunt live alone?”

  There was more than casual interest in the question. Spraggue thought about the bustle of Mary’s Chestnut Hill mansion. Pierce, her butler, the fleet of secretaries, housekeepers, the elderly chauffeur.

  “Yeah,” he said. “She lives alone.”

  “Widow?”

  “In World War Two.”

  “Long time ago.”

  “She never remarried.”

  “You’re fond of her?” Rawlins licked the big serving spoon appreciatively before putting it back in the bag.

  “She raised me from the time I was fourteen. Fond doesn’t even come close.”

  “Seems a fine woman. Hate to think her cook’d be mixed up in a thing like this. Now your aunt, Mrs. Hillman, would be a pretty rich woman, having her own cook and calling on that Mr. Jackson, who is one hot-ticket attorney, or so I hear.”