Dragging myself out of bed, I searched through the pockets of my torn pants until I found what I’d been looking for. I closed my hand tightly around it and sat back down on my bed, hesitating for a moment before opening the drawer of my nightstand. Santou’s garnet-and-onyx rosary beads lay nestled inside, the ones he had given me that first night. Then I opened my fist. The beads were an exact match to the rosary I now held in my hand. The one that had been secreted away inside Valerie Vaughn’s jewelry box.
My body ached as I crawled out of bed the next morning, cramped muscles protesting my decision to work that day. Three cups of coffee and a Percocet made me feel only slightly better. The makeup I applied did little to hide the damage that colored my skin various shades of purple. This was a job that required Terri’s expertise. His fine hand would have worked magic, camouflaging the profusion of bruises that had mysteriously appeared overnight. But Terri was occupied with his own injuries at the moment, leaving me to realize just how much I’d come to depend on him for everything from friendship to beauty tips. Weary from a dream-filled night of running feet and the rat-a-tat barking of one very dead dog, I headed over to the Garden District, past the esplanade on St. Charles, and on to Hillard’s lemon meringue pie of a mansion. There had been no love lost between Fifi and me, but I felt bad for Dolores. The dog had been her lifeline. I was worried what would happen to her now.
Vinnie answered the door at his usual lackadaisical pace, eyeing my bruises up and down before saying a word.
“Youse been playing football on ya time off, New Yawk?”
Seeing him in his lime green shirt and white polyester pants, I knew Vinnie couldn’t have been the one who had done the dirty deed of killing Dolores’s dog.
“Hey, if some punk boyfriend did that ta ya, say the word and he’s dog meat.”
I appreciated the sentiment, but all it did was remind me of Fifi. “Speaking of dogs, that’s why I’m here. What happened?”
Vinnie motioned me inside. “I know how ya hates ta sweat. Seems like something the mutt ate in the backyard didn’t agree with her.”
“Do you know what it was?”
“I got a good idea. I seen a guy looking the same way once at a restaurant in the Bronx. Big swollen tongue you couldn’t of rolled back in his mouth. The wise guy with him blamed it on the shellfish. I say it pays ta know who’s doing the cooking. Personally, I like ta cook for myself.”
“So, what was Fifi eating?”
“The mutt kicked off on a nice chunk of lean ground sirloin. Her favorite. Course, I’d been wondering what happened ta the makings for my meatballs. I always buy the best for my sauce, ya know. So I was pretty p.o.’d about the whole thing.”
“Where was Mrs. Williams at the time?”
Vinnie scratched absently at his crotch. “Now, that’s the funny thing. She was sleeping it off upstairs in her room like she does every afternoon, ya know. But she always kept Fifi in bed with her. Damn mutt even has its own pillow. Youse oughta see the thing. We’re talking lace, with its name, whadda ya call it, hand sewn, in the center. Anyways, I’m at the stove cooking some sauce when the old bat starts screaming at the top of her lungs, ‘Where’s Fifi? Where’s my little Fifi?’ How the hell am I supposed ta know where her damn dog is, if she don’t?
“So’s, we start looking for the damn thing. I’m down on my hands and knees checking under beds, inside closets. She even had me move the damn furniture, like that little porker could squeeze into a tight space. Finally, she’s screamin’ and cryin’ that her dog’s been murdered. Listen, that was one nasty mop of hair with sharp teeth. But what kinda person is gonna kill a little dog, am I right?
“So we hit the backyard, and there’s Fifi, a chunk of meat still in her mouth, lying on her side like she’s taking a nap. I wouldn’ta put it past the mutt to play dead just so’s it could nab me. But I let Mrs. W. go and check it out. Sure enough, Fifi’s stone-cold dead. Not even a twitch from the stump. Now she’s screamin’ that one of us murdered her dog, and says we’re gonna all have to take some kinda lie detector test. Wants me ta go down ta the police. I mean, I hated that mutt, but I ain’t no dog killer.”
I believed him, but I also felt sure the dog had been intentionally poisoned.
“Was anyone else besides you and Mrs. Williams here at the time?”
Vinnie finished manicuring a fingernail with his teeth, spitting the loose clipping onto the floor.
“Mr. W., he was out somewhere’s, I don’t know where. I don’t keep tabs on the old man. And the Kraut? That sneaky sonofabitch could be behind me right now, and I probably wouldn’t know it.”
“Do you think I could speak to Mrs. Williams?”
“She’s locked herself in her bedroom and said she ain’t coming out. I’m just supposed ta keep putting a glass of bourbon and ice outside the door every half hour. She’s slugged down about a pint so far this morning. Good thing I keep it well stocked.”
“I think it would be a good idea for me to take Fifi’s body and have it autopsied. That way we could begin to figure out what kind of poison was used, and possibly trace where it came from.”
Vinnie sniffed the air as the scent of lasagna wafted out from the kitchen.
“Whadda ya, kiddin’ me? She’s got the damn dog locked up in there with her. Ya could always try gettin’ it away from her, but youse are on your own with that one.”
The last thing I needed to do was get in a tussle with Dolores over the body of her dead dog. Anxious to get back to the kitchen, Vinnie cut me some slack.
“Listen, kiddo. I don’t like no animal killers any more than you do. I mean, if you’re gonna snuff someone, you should pick on a guy your own size, you know what I mean? I got something that might help ya out. I picked up what meat was left on the ground where Fifi keeled over. I don’t want nothing else dying, ya understand? I still got it. Ya wants it, it’s yours. Wait here and I’ll dig it outta the freezer.”
The meat would be almost as good as Fifi herself. I waited beneath the crystal chandelier, the sun scattering miniature rainbows on the polished floor around my feet. The morning light felt like sharp lasers drilling into the back of my eyes, and I found myself concentrating on the kaleidoscopes of color in order to take my mind off the steel pincers of pain beginning to form in the back of my head. I was taken by surprise when the door to Hillard’s private chamber opened. Gunter walked out, looking as cold and distant as the newspaper photo I now had of him. He wasn’t alone. His companion was a scrawny weasel of a man with a long, thin nose reminiscent of the hose attachment on a vacuum cleaner. His eyes squinted, darting back and forth as they took me in. Wearing a sneer, along with a toupee that resembled roadkill, the man was dressed in the uniform of a state agent for the Louisiana Department of Fish and Game.
A hint of a smile flitted across Gunter’s lips. “Agent Porter. What an unexpected surprise. Are introductions necessary here, or do you two already know each other since you are both in the same line of work?”
The state agent wiped the palms of his hands up and down his legs, leaving track marks of sweat on his pants. “She don’t know me none. Not a hotshot fed like herself. They don’t have nothin’ to do with us state boys who work hard for a livin’. But I sure as hell know who she is.”
A homegrown enmity between federal and state agents in Louisiana had developed into an “us against them” mentality. Just as with the folks in the bayou, I was considered the outsider coming in, trying to shove a law down their throats which they had no intention of following. State agents played by bayou rules. Sometimes they even made up their own.
“Then you have an advantage over me. Do I get to know your name, or is this part of the game where I’m supposed to guess?”
The man continued to sneer, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, his fingers wriggling about like a family of tiny moles trying to escape through the fabric.
“That’s a good idea. Why don’t you spend some of that free time of yours doing that.”
Nodding to Gunter, the man strode past me out the door. Gunter’s lips twitched, though his eyes remained as dead as ever.
“That was state agent Clyde Bolles, and I don’t believe he likes you, Agent Porter.”
“I’ll learn to live with it.”
Gunter wasted no time on small talk. “May I ask what you’re doing here, please.”
“I want to speak with Mrs. Williams. It won’t take up much time.”
Gunter looked toward the staircase before bringing his attention back to me.
“Who let you in, Agent Porter?”
“The butler, of course.”
“Of course.” Gunter sighed and motioned toward the stairs with a sweeping theatrical gesture, turning his body around as if to block any sudden moves on my part.
“I am so sorry, but Mrs. Williams is indisposed today. Perhaps you heard. Her dog took ill yesterday and died.” He gestured with the same hand that Fifi had taken a chunk out of, the white gauze still bearing telltale stains of dried blood.
“I heard the dog was poisoned.”
“Interesting. And I thought it was just a piece of bad meat.”
I was left with little doubt as to who the supplier had been.
Gunter moved in toward me until I found myself backed up against the front door.
“I’ll let Mrs. Williams know that you stopped by to convey your condolences. It will mean so much to her.”
Leaning in close, he turned the knob and opened the door behind me. Worried that Vinnie might pick this moment to come lumbering back in with the meat in his hand, I allowed the door to close in my face and then headed to the back of the house. Having refused this morning to put on the brace I’d been given to wear, a jolt of pain shot through my knee as I slowed to a hobble. But I didn’t have to go very far before I spotted Vinnie hidden behind a profusion of overgrown shrubs. The lime green of his shirt blended in with the plants, while his face peeked out from between the deep pink flowers of an azalea bush.
“This is the best I can do for youse.”
Thrusting a small foil-wrapped package into my hands, he turned and was gone before I looked up to thank him.
Eleven
As I drove back toward Canal, I wondered what kind of business a state game agent could have with Gunter Schuess. Clyde Bolles appeared to be a beneficiary of small-town political patronage—a favor that had been owed and paid off by supplying Bolles with a job.
Wanting to get a progress report on Terri, I stopped by a pay phone along Decatur Street. The news Dr. Kushner gave me was good. Aside from needing lots of rest, Terri was on the mend.
“Just keep an eye on him, Porter. He has this obsession with staring at himself in the mirror while chanting the names of top plastic surgeons like it was some sort of mantra. Why don’t you swing by the day after tomorrow and take him off my hands.”
That sounded like the Terri I knew and loved. Kushner added some more information that I’d hoped to hear.
“I also spoke to Sam Leonard, the vet I told you about. Seems he’s bored with his same old routine, so I filled him in on you. That was last night. He’s called me three times since, wanting to know why you haven’t phoned him yet. So do me a favor and give him a call before he pesters me to death.”
“Thanks. I’ll return the favor sometime.”
“You can buy me a drink when this is all over and we’ll call it even.”
With some free time on my hands, a pay phone in front of me, and a ball of raw meat thawing out fast, I decided to call Dr. Sam right away. A male voice answered on the third ring with the same impatient tone I occasionally found myself using.
“Yeah, hi. Animal Health Clinic here.”
“I’d like to speak to Dr. Leonard, please.”
“Well, I’d say that depends on who you are.”
Sam Leonard was in bad need of a new receptionist—one who didn’t abuse clients before the first appointment had been made.
“This is Rachel Porter. Dr. Leonard’s expecting my call.”
“You aren’t kidding. I’ve been waiting around hoping to hear from you all morning. How the hell are you?”
“Dr. Leonard?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’d think I wouldn’t have to answer my own phone, but my receptionist is out to lunch so I’m doing double duty. So are you free or what?”
“You mean do I have some time available?”
“Yeah, like right now. Lucy’s due back in ten minutes. Let’s grab some lunch, and you can fill me in on what you have in mind, lay out the plans, hit me with the dirt.”
I hadn’t imagined working with a kamikaze vet champing at the bit to disobey the law. But I also didn’t have a wide range of candidates to choose from. I’d have to check him out and decide from there. We agreed to meet at Mother’s, a local spot on Poydras Street. It seemed a safe enough place since it was always jammed.
“How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be the good-looking guy with the long grey ponytail, grizzled beard, and jeans. How about you?”
“I’m the tall strawberry blonde who looks like she just walked into a wall.”
Dr. Sam chuckled. “Yeah, Sandy told me about that. So, I’ll look for a Yankee decked out in red, black, and blue. See you in half an hour.”
I gave myself a quick once-over in the rearview mirror. Yellow bruises shone through my makeup, as if I’d contracted a bad case of hepatitis. Giving up on vanity, I turned my aggression on a Jaguar instead, beating it out for a parking space that was up for grabs. By the time I got to Mother’s, the line for a table was halfway out the door. I pushed my way up front, but no one fit Sam’s description. I started heading to the back of the line when a hand gripped me by the shoulder and swung me around.
“Hey, Rachel. Follow me.”
Grabbing my hand was a man already beginning to jostle his way through the crowd, looping himself in and out of bodies like only a true New Yorker can do. A long grey ponytail swung past his shoulders, hitting the back of a lavender tee shirt. Jeans were slung low on his hips. Air Nike sneakers gave a bounce to his walk, so that his head bobbed up and down like a duck at a shooting gallery. Dr. Sam had a table ready and waiting with a pitcher of cold sangria half polished off. I was impressed.
“How did you manage this?”
“The guy who owns the place, his dog’s a patient of mine. Hey, it’s that old New York adage of who you know.”
Taking a sip of sangria, I studied the man across from me. A coarse mass of salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back tightly. A beard and mustache covered the bottom half of a pockmarked face. Unruly eyebrows reached straight out toward me, hovering above hazel eyes which smiled from behind a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses. He was the classic sixties-liberal case study. A Dead Head graduates from school, decides to experience life on the road, travels around the country living in communes until landing in New Orleans, where he tunes into the ongoing party and then proceeds to tune out, never bothering to leave.
“So, you got it figured out yet, Rachel?”
“Sorry. You’re just not what I had expected.”
“Good. Okay. So you want to know what’s in this for me. Let’s run through it before we eat. I’ve got a bad stomach. I’m beginning to think it’s ulcers.”
Dr. Sam listed a political history that involved lab animal break-ins, spraying red paint on seals up in Canada alongside Brigitte Bardot, and harassing Soviet trawlers during whale hunts. But that had been years ago. Since then, his life had settled into the routine medical duties required for his practice. Restless and itching to do something he shouldn’t, he was looking for some trouble. I gave him the rough details of what I wanted him to do, which was basically to autopsy a gator found at the scene of a highly suspicious murder. I also told him I was looking to tie it into a scam involving heavy hitters whose names I couldn’t yet divulge.
Agreeing to help me out, Sam gobbled down a plate of shrimp étouffée in record time, ordering a piece of swe
et potato pie before I had barely begun to dig into my seafood gumbo. His paunch attested to the fact that he’d been enjoying the good life more than climbing over the walls of any research labs, lately.
“So did I pass the test, chief?”
“Like an Eagle Scout with flying colors.”
“Great.” His hands massaged his stomach. “Man, this is just what the doctor ordered. I feel like I’ve been born again.”
I took out another Percocet and poured some more sangria. “Kind of like Hillard Williams, huh?”
“That scumbag running for mayor? His dog is a patient of mine. Now there’s your deep-fried couple. The wife’s a lush, which is understandable. It’s probably the only way she can get through each day with the man.”
I reached for my sangria as the Percocet caught in my throat. “You used to treat Fifi?”
“Still do. Nasty little bugger. But hell, I’d be, too, if I’d had a gator chomping down on me like some hors d’oeuvre.” Reaching into the bottom of the sangria pitcher, he forked out a maraschino cherry and popped it in his mouth, the red juice staining a few hairs on his beard.
“Sorry to have to tell you this Sam, but you just lost a patient. Fifi met with some foul play yesterday. I have reason to believe she was fed poisoned meat. In fact, I have a sample in my car. I was hoping you’d analyze it for me.”
Sam dipped his fingers into his water glass and wiped the cherry juice from his beard. “Yeah, sure. No sweat. Man, I wasn’t crazy about that dog, but she didn’t deserve a death like that.”
The remark conjured up visions of Valerie and Hook. “Will you be able to do an autopsy on the gator anytime soon?”
Sam picked at the fruit on the bottom of the pitcher, demolishing one piece after the other. “Sure. You got a way to get it over to me?”
It was the one piece of logistics I hadn’t stopped to consider. There was no way to transport a ten-foot alligator in my Crackerjack box of a car. Fortunately, Dr. Sam picked up on my panicked state of hesitation.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a van. Tell you what, I’ll even help you carry the body. Feel better now, Rachel?”
Gator Aide (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 17