by Julie Chase
“Neither.” I straightened a pile of official-looking papers and tried to be cool, but my nerves were fully rattled despite the spiked tea. “What am I looking at, specifically?” I turned the tidy pile to face him.
“This is everything I removed from Wallace’s Cuddle Brigade office. I’m trying to connect Wallace Becker to someone who’d want to hurt him. So far, I’ve got nothing, but I’m not finished yet.” He took the papers from me and split the stack in half. “You take these.” He set one portion in front of me. “Those are the notes and phone numbers I haven’t had time to identify. I finished going through the things from his home office last night.”
I reviewed the stack of sticky notes and scribbles, photocopies, and receipts with a bit of dismay. It could take forever to figure out why Mr. Becker had all these things and whether or not any of them had anything to do with the reason he was killed. An unpleasant thought niggled at the back of my mind. “Do you really want my help, or are you just trying to keep me here where you can watch over me?”
“Little of both.” He added more bourbon to my tea. “Can you live with that?”
“I guess.” I sipped the drink and traced a fingertip over a tiny mark in Mr. Becker’s appointment book.
“After I got your text about the truck, I started patrolling the district in search of it. I had my guy at the station search the motor vehicle database for a truck fitting that description. He didn’t find one registered to anyone in the parish, but there are half a dozen in the state. It’ll take time to contact all the owners. For what it’s worth, I’ve been busy, but I was never more than a few minutes from you after that text.” The look in his eyes said something more, but my nerves were too rattled to venture a guess.
“Thank you.”
“Yep.” Jack’s stomach growled, and he left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with a teapot and refilled my cup, then splashed another dose of bourbon in for good measure.
I set the appointment book down with a frown. “Look at this.” I moved a finger over the strange little doodad Mr. Becker had scratched in several places. “What do you think this is? It’s here and here.” I turned the pages, pointing out a number of similar marks. “There’s a little stick and a circle on top. What could it mean?”
He rested a hip on the table beside my arm and took the book from me for a closer inspection. “Are there any correlations? Do they mark a pattern of days or times?”
“Not that I can see. And it never appears with a name or number. Just this little thing.” Could it be a shorthand symbol? A hieroglyphic? Something from a cipher? “Every other appointment has a note to remind him when, where, and who, but these stand alone. They must represent something important. Something impossible to forget.”
Jack’s stomach complained again. “Maybe it’s a doodle.”
“It’s not a doodle. Why haven’t you eaten? I thought you left to get something just now.”
He patted his middle. “I’ll get something later. This is important.”
“So is eating. Come on.” I handed him the book and collected my tea. “You have to eat. What do you have?”
He shuffled along behind me with a sigh. “Everything.”
I set my tea on the kitchen island and opened his mammoth double-door fridge. “How about a grilled cheese? Those are fast and delicious.” I guffawed at the fridge’s contents. He wasn’t kidding about having everything.
Jack appeared on my left. He bumped me with his elbow. “You sit. I’ll cook. Do you like pizza?”
“What kind do you have?” I hadn’t looked in the freezer, but I wasn’t a big fan of a lot of the frozen brands. “I don’t mind making something.”
He rolled his eyes dramatically and raked a hand through his hair. “Why would you cook at my house?”
“I don’t know.” Why would I? Hadn’t I just resolved not to let Chase serve me at my house? Here I was doing the same thing to Jack. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
I rubbed tired eyes and suppressed a groan. “Taking over your kitchen. That was rude and presumptuous. Trust me. I know.”
Jack dragged a pizza crust from the refrigerator and spread it on a baking sheet, then lined the island with veggies and cheeses. “I didn’t mind.”
“You didn’t?”
He locked ice-blue eyes on me. “You’re welcome to cook here any time, but maybe you can start on a day you haven’t been threatened by a blackmailing murderer.”
I rose onto my knees, balancing like a child on the big stool for a better look. “Deal.”
He smiled. “For tonight, how about some spinach, tomato, basil, mozzarella . . .” He pointed to the ingredients one by one.
My stomach growled. “Yes, please.”
He chuckled. “Okay. If you’re still worked up after we’ve eaten, we can always take a swim. I do my best thinking in the water.”
I’d seen that process firsthand and wouldn’t mind a repeat. “I don’t have a suit with me, but you can swim. I’ll sit at one of the patio tables.”
He lifted playful eyes from his diligent pizza making. “No suit?”
“Focus.”
He brushed his hands together. “You’re right. What were you saying about the little drawings?”
It took me a minute to recall. “Maybe if I find the very first symbol and follow it through, I’ll get a better idea of its meaning.”
He nudged my fingers away from the glass bowls of neglected toppings. “Quit stealing olives.”
I stopped chewing and feigned innocence. “What do you mean?”
He laughed softly and washed his hands in the prep sink. “Did you miss dinner too?”
“No. I had fish tacos. The photos are making me hungry. I’m a nervous eater. I munch on everything when I’m in danger.”
“If that’s true, you ought to weigh more,” he said.
“Ha ha.” I sat back and turned the pages of Mr. Becker’s appointment book while Jack finished the pizza. He was right. If my endless bad luck didn’t change, I’d need a new dress size by breakfast.
Jack pushed dinner into the oven and set a timer.
I flipped between two pages in Mr. Becker’s planner. “The meaning of these symbols is here; we just have to figure it out.”
He circled the island to hover at my side. “Good luck.” He fingered the line of surveillance photos again. “These are high quality. Whoever took them used a good camera and had a clear line of sight. Have you noticed anyone hanging around this week?” His kind voice and soft cologne enveloped me.
“No, but I’ve been distracted.” Take now for example.
“Apparently,” he muttered, scooting the photos of Chase and me farther away from him. “Anything new with you two?”
“No.” I drew a row of the weird symbols along the edge of another paper. I drew them upside down, backward, big, and small. “Are you asking because I told you about the kiss?” I forced my gaze to remain on the paper.
“I’m just making small talk while our dinner bakes.”
“No you aren’t.” I stopped to stare at him. “You’re being nosy. Admit it.” He’d told me once that nosiness was in his job description, and as far as I could tell, Jack was the job description.
He pulled the photo of him and me in front of him. “I’m just asking.”
“I don’t believe you, but for the record, there’s nothing new between me and Chase. We are what we have always been. Good friends.”
“Someone ought to tell him.”
“I did. He said he’ll wait, and we can get married later.”
Jack did a monstrous eye roll.
I went back to doodling. “Does this look like a magnifying glass now that I made it bigger?”
Jack made a face. “Kind of.”
I slapped the paper, overcome by an epiphany. “Dr. Hawkins said Mr. Becker hired a private investigator. I’d bet my black olives that this symbol stands for times he met with him, and the PI’s number is probably one of the
unidentified ones in my pile.”
Jack set his cell phone on the island. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
I lined the unidentified phone numbers up and dialed them one by one. Most were businesses already closed for the night. I jotted down the company names beside their numbers. “I’m glad these aren’t people’s homes. It’s kind of late to make calls, and I’ve had too much bourbon to talk to another human being.”
“You sound fine to me.”
“That’s because you’ve had more than me.”
He nudged the paper. “You do the dialing, and I’ll decide when we’ve had too much bourbon.”
I dialed and sniggered.
Jack made me another cup of tea.
“Hello?” A man answered the next call.
My eyes went wide. I covered the receiver and made panicked faces at Jack.
He pointed to the Cuddle Brigade letterhead and made an air circle with his finger.
“Um,” I bumbled, “I’m calling from the Cuddle Brigade.”
“That’s my dad’s company,” the man said. “What do you want? Why are you calling?”
I’d called Wallace Jr.! I shrugged repeatedly at Jack, who looked thoroughly amused and not concerned at all.
“Um, I’m calling because there was a box of things in Mr. Becker’s office with your name on them,” I improvised. “Maybe you’d like to come and pick them up tomorrow?”
Jack gave me a thumbs-up.
“Sure,” Wallace Jr. said. His voice had lost its edge. “Okay.”
“Great. Ask for Jack when you get there. And Wallace? I’m very sorry about your loss.” I disconnected with mixed feelings. “That was sad.”
“Yes,” Jack agreed, “but now I can talk to Wallace’s son without his mother intervening or calling their lawyer.”
The oven beeped as I dialed the next number. Jack removed the pizza and set it on the island. Tangy scents of marinara and melted cheeses buttered the air.
“Jerry Gates, PI,” a voice answered.
I jumped in my seat. “Jerry Gates?” I repeated, scribbling his name onto the paper. “Private investigator?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?” The sounds of live music droned in the background, making him difficult to hear.
I shot an apologetic look at Jack. This was who we needed to talk to, and I had a great idea for how to see him right away. “Someone’s following me!” I burst into fake hysteria. “I need your help.”
Jack crunched his face.
I huffed and puffed into the receiver. “Someone’s sending me photographs of myself, and I’m frightened.”
The music grew distant on his end of the line. “What’s your name, Miss? Where are you? Stay calm. I can help.”
“That would be wonderful. I’d really appreciate that.”
Jack crept back to my side and mouthed the words, “What are you doing?”
I gripped his arm in preparation for my next bold move. “Mr. Gates, is there any way you can meet with me first thing tomorrow morning?”
“I like to sleep in,” he said. “Night work is kind of my thing. Are you near the Quarter? You want to meet me at the Hotel Monteleone in an hour?”
I bounced my knees erratically, watching Jack for the blank-faced cop-nod go-ahead.
He screwed the top on the bottle of bourbon with a sigh.
I took that as a yes. “See you soon.”
Chapter Twenty
Furry Godmother strongly recommends cherishing your cat. No one knows what she’s plotting.
We each had a slice of pizza and cup of coffee before Jack called a cab.
“I wish I wasn’t still wearing this,” I said, dotting my mouth with a napkin. “White dresses in the French Quarter aren’t generally a good idea.” The area was fun, but not exactly known for its cleanliness.
Jack pushed away from the island. “What size are you?”
I crossed my arms. “Yeah, right.”
He disappeared down a side hall and returned with a pair of folded jeans, tags still attached. “Tabitha left boxes of brand new things in her closet when she vanished. I’d like to think she felt guilty for all the stuff Grandpa bought her while she was lying to his face and drugging him, but more likely, her getaway car was already full.”
I took the pants, reluctantly. Much as I didn’t want to wear a mean lady’s jeans, I also didn’t want to waste any more time before getting to the Quarter. “I’ll put them on, but they probably won’t button, and they don’t exactly go with this white dress.”
He produced a wad of cotton material in his other palm. “How about a rugby practice shirt?”
“Tabitha played rugby?”
He laughed. “I played when I was young.”
“I can’t picture it,” I said, accepting the top. I shook it out and held it by the shoulders. The navy color was nice, and the material was soft. There was a big number twenty-seven on the back. The word Oliver stood above it. “If I wear this, will it mean we’re going steady?”
“Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Now put it on and let’s go.”
I changed in the bathroom nearest to the kitchen, surprised at how easily the pants buttoned and self-conscious about the clingy cut of the material. Rhinestones and silver thread formed elaborate crosses over each of the back pockets. I tucked the hem of Jack’s shirt in and twisted for a look at myself in the mirror. Surprisingly, the top nearly fit across the shoulders. It must have been purchased before Jack’s growth spurt.
He knocked on the door.
“Coming.” I finger-combed my hair and checked my face for smudged eyeliner or lipstick. No problems there. Most of it had probably disappeared hours ago. I tugged the door open.
Jack leaned against the doorjamb, startling me half to death. A slow smile rose on his lips, stretching over his face until it reached his eyes.
“I think this should be your new French Quarter outfit.”
“I don’t think so.” Though, I wouldn’t have minded keeping the shirt. It was comfy, and it smelled like Jack. “I look like a little boy.”
“Wrong.” He turned back for the kitchen.
Lights flashed over his front windows.
“Cab’s here,” he said.
Twenty minutes later, thick Louisiana air raced over my skin as we strolled along crowded French Quarter streets. Sounds of laughter, live bands, and distant DJs mixed with neon lights and smiling faces from all around the world. Second-floor galleries were lined with people enjoying the same enchanted night as me. The moment was intoxicating.
Jack ran his fingers against my palm and lifted my hand into the crook of his elbow.
I lolled my head against his arm as we walked. “I love it here.”
“Me too.”
The Hotel Monteleone sign rose regally into the night sky up ahead, each enormous red letter supported by white scaffolding, somewhat reminiscent of California’s Hollywood sign, except there were no hills here, only enough history and beauty to break my heart. “When I think of all the things these buildings have seen,” I told Jack, “all the joys and tragedies that have transpired right here where we’re walking . . . War. Yellow fever. Weddings. Parades. Lives. Deaths. It makes me feel like I’m being woven in the tapestry of time right beside them.”
Jack pressed his free hand over mine where it rested on his arm. “I think that’s exactly what happens in a city like this. We become part of it.” He released me to open the grand Monteleone door. “Ladies first.”
I passed beneath the majestic canopy and into the lobby.
Jack entered on my heels.
Happy voices spilled from the hotel’s famous Carousel Bar, where the bar not only looked like a carousel but rotated like one as well, making a complete rotation every fifteen minutes. The carousel’s lights were on when we entered, and two seats opened as we approached. The couple, previously seated, had been lured away to dance. I climbed aboard an empty stool and ordered a Sazerac. Jack stuck with water, and despite our recent—albeit rushed—p
izza, he requested crawfish beignets.
The bartender steadied a bottle of water in front of Jack and placed two empty glasses on the bar beside it. “A Sazerac,” he explained, scooping crushed ice into each glass, “is a New Orleans tradition and one of our specialties here. It’s made with Absinthe, one sugar cube, Rye whiskey or cognac. I prefer cognac.” He winked. “Three dashes of Peychaud’s Bitters, and voilà!” He worked methodically through the complicated process of my drink, then strained the finished product from one glass into the other. He topped it with a lemon peel. “One New Orleans work of art for another.”
I blushed. “Thank you.”
Jack didn’t look impressed. He checked his watch. “Do you see anyone who looks like Gates?”
I swiped my cell phone to life and compared the image on my screen to the faces around us. We’d looked the PI up online during our cab ride. According to the LinkedIn profile, Jeremiah Gates was a decorated veteran with twenty years on the Baton Rouge police force and a decade working private investigations, but his picture was clearly taken in the 1990s. “What about him?” I pointed to a man sitting alone in the corner.
“No.”
I squinted. “It’s dark in here. I don’t know.” I scanned the crowded bar again. My gaze caught on a man loitering outside the window, watching a couple climb down from a horse-drawn carriage. “Him?” I pointed.
The couple moseyed into the hotel, and the man followed.
Jack lifted my phone to eye level and moved it in line with the man. “That’s him.”
The couple took a seat in the rear corner of the room. The man headed right for me. He was older than my dad and in worse shape. His khaki pants were belted around his navel. The cuffs didn’t quite reach his black socks and white Reeboks. He’d tucked a Hawaiian button-down shirt into his khakis and topped the outfit off with a floppy brimmed hat. Next to him, I looked runway ready. “Hello, I’m Jerry Gates.” He extended one dimpled hand in my direction, a business card stuck between two fingers.