The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  “I don’t work for a newspaper, Mr. Leveque.” I smiled tightly.

  “Then who?” Philip smirked. “Senator Graham? Because you can tell him I won’t be bullied out of this race, no matter how many—”

  “I don’t know any senators and don’t care to.”

  This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. I wasn’t supposed to be this antagonistic, but Philip’s immediate reaction had me all wrong-footed.

  “Then we have nothing to discuss.” He tried to move past me, but I stepped sideways into his path.

  “Now, Mr. Leveque. Surely you aren’t leaving so soon.”

  He stopped and studied me with narrowed eyes. I could almost see him assessing whether he could get past me by force. We were the same height, but he had broader shoulders and probably twenty pounds on me. I had to talk fast to keep him from pushing past me and avoiding the whole conversation. Deception hadn’t worked on him so far, but maybe a bit of truth would grab his attention.

  “I’m not a reporter,” I said, trying to calm down, smooth out my voice. “But I do need to ask you some questions about Minty McDonough.”

  “Minty? How do you know her by that—ah . . . I see.” A light came on in his eyes, and he looked me over again with a new expression, an odd smile forming on his lips. “You must be one of her unfortunate conquests.”

  “Her . . . conquests?”

  “Yes, surely you can’t have believed you were the only one she dallied with?” He looked at me with condescending pity.

  I swallowed, taking a moment to think. Should I lean into his assumption and see where it took me? I started to run my hands through my hair but stopped, afraid to spoil my disguise. “I . . . I knew I wasn’t the only one,” I said tentatively. “But it’s not right what happened to her. I’m just trying to find out who really did it.”

  “The police seem to believe they’ve already done that.” I detected a hint of contempt in his voice. Did he believe Marion was a murderer, or was there some loyalty left in him for his brother?

  “They’re wrong,” I said, watching Philip’s face. “That singer . . . I’ve met him before, and he didn’t seem like a killer to me.”

  Philip’s gaze sharpened to a knifepoint, and he advanced a step toward me. “How well do you know him? Do you know where he is now?”

  I coughed. “Not well. Just met him once or twice is all. Why did you and Minty break up anyway?”

  Philip looked slightly surprised at the change in tack, or maybe by how much I knew about him.

  “We . . . it didn’t work out. That’s all.” He shook his head, like he was struggling to organize his thoughts. Was he still thinking about Marion?

  “That’s not very specific, Mr. Leveque. I get the impression you parted on ugly terms.”

  The bright alertness came back into his eyes. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Never mind about that. Did you still love Minty? Is that why she and your current girlfriend argued the night of her murder?”

  Philip’s hands tightened into fists at his sides. “My romantic feelings are none of your business, and I know nothing about an argument. But I can tell you Daphne has been very distraught since Minty’s . . . death. She was one of the ones who found the”—he waved a hand— “you know.”

  “The body?” I enjoyed the way he flinched. “Where were you the night of New Year’s Eve, Mr. Leveque? Why weren’t you with your girlfriend?”

  “I was out of the city on business.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is none of your concern. And even if I had been in the city, which the police have already confirmed I wasn’t, I would never patronize such a seedy dive as that one.”

  I clenched my right hand into a tight fist but tried to keep the expression on my face light. “I’m sure you’ve heard she was there with a date that night. Fitzroy DeCoursey. Did you ever meet him?”

  Philip narrowed his eyes warily. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “So, he’s never contacted you, Mr. Leveque? About any private matters?”

  His expression was inscrutable. “No one named DeCoursey ever contacted me about any matter, private or otherwise. There is little in the life of a politician that is private, but I have nothing to hide.”

  I rocked toward him on my toes and lowered my voice. “You mean to tell me you’ve never had one single skeleton locked away?”

  Philip evaluated me coolly. When he spoke, his voice was softer, calmer, more dangerous. “What has this DeCoursey been saying to you?”

  I hesitated. I could pretend to have already spoken to Fitzroy, and maybe trick Philip into admitting something. But with so little information, it seemed safest to veer close to the truth. “I haven’t spoken to Mr. DeCoursey yet. I wanted to hear from you first.”

  His brows rose. “Then who have you been speaking to? It sounds as if someone has been making insinuations, and I would like to know who.”

  I waved a hand. “Oh, I can’t reveal my sources.”

  For the first time, Philip looked rattled, his face flushed. “Surely, no one thinks I had anything to do with Miss McDonough’s murder.”

  I smiled. “I can’t say what anyone else thinks, Mr. Leveque.”

  “Well, I can say what I think,” he said hotly. “You’re looking in the wrong place. Even if the killer is not R—” He paused, swallowed. “Not that singer, you should be looking for someone else from that so-called club. You should—” He stopped and shut his eyes for a moment, and the anger smoothed slowly out of his face, as if by sheer force of will. He opened his eyes and smiled at me with fresh malice. “I’d wager Miss McDonough’s killer is from your part of the city. Sounds like the kind of violent display one finds there, don’t you agree?”

  I didn’t say anything, but gripped my switchblade, Pearl, and contemplated how satisfying it would be to jab him with it. I’d show him a violent display.

  Then it occurred to me—how did he know which part of the city I was from?

  All traces of his flash of anger had disappeared. He smiled lazily, as if he knew just what I was thinking and was pleased by it. “Are you quite ready to let me out of here now?”

  “I’m not holding you,” I said, but my brain was still churning, trying to remember where I’d given myself away. Was he just assuming I was from the French Quarter because I’d admitted to meeting Marion before? Or did he notice something more?

  Philip’s brows rose into tidy right angles. “Is that so? Then why was that waiter guarding the door so studiously?”

  My frown deepened. When had he put that together? I clutched the blade in my pocket, knowing I couldn’t use it. “Go ahead and leave then.”

  “I will.” Philip glanced in the mirror and straightened his already-straight bow tie. “But I advise you to take your leave as well. I don’t believe for one moment you’re in this hotel’s employ, so whoever you are, when I leave this room, I will be going straight to the management to report an impostor.”

  He didn’t wait for my reaction. He strode toward the heavy door and pushed it open. Bennie threw up his arms in surprise, but Philip merely brushed past him and walked away with purpose.

  I shoved down my rage and grabbed Bennie by the sleeve.

  “We’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

  * * *

  Bennie and I hurried back to the waiters’ dressing room and grabbed our clothes. We didn’t have time to change since we could already hear the clatter of voices shouting about impostors from the other end of the hall.

  Whoever you are. Philip’s words rang in my head. He’d known I was from the French Quarter, but maybe he hadn’t known I was from the Cloak and Dagger. Maybe he hadn’t figured out the extent of my relationship with Marion. And if he had—what then? Would it make any difference? The cops already knew I was Marion’
s friend, and they had more resources to find me than Philip did. Probably.

  Bennie and I dashed toward the exit door, shedding our white jackets and bow ties as we ran. The shirts and black pants we’d have to keep for now. I hoped nobody would connect Eddie to us and get him canned, but I couldn’t do anything about it now. After this I’d owe him free drinks for a month, and it would all be for nothing if we ended up cooling our heels in jail.

  “What did you find out?” Bennie said breathlessly as we bolted down a side street toward the river.

  “I’m not sure.” I still needed to fit all the little pieces of information into the big puzzle and see if the picture became any clearer.

  “But did he tell you if Fitzroy has been trying to blackmail him? Or what Daphne and Minty were fighting about?”

  I shook my head, clutching at a stitch in my side. “I don’t know if he told me anything. He was a slippery one.”

  Bennie fell silent then, which I was grateful for. I needed my air for running, and I didn’t slow down until we turned left and were across Canal Street and three blocks deep into our own neighborhood. I doubted the hotel people were so concerned about a couple of impostor waiters that they’d exert much effort looking for us, but I was glad to have left that place far behind and let the cool night air wash its perfumed stink away.

  We finally stopped on the corner where I’d have to continue straight to go to my apartment, and Bennie would turn right to return to his room at the back of his parents’ grocery.

  “Thanks,” I said, leaning against the nearest brick wall to catch my breath. “You really came through.”

  Bennie leaned beside me and stuck his hands in his pockets, as if he weren’t also out of breath. He nudged my shoulder with his. “You going to tell me what all happened in there with that guy?”

  He looked at me, and I looked at him, with the yellow glow of the streetlight shining on his dark eyes and hair. The air seemed caught between us, like a bubble I could choose to pop or not. I knew in my gut that if I kept looking much longer, he would kiss me, and that I would like it. And then what would I do with that? What would he expect? What would I?

  I didn’t know. Not yet. So, I pushed myself off the wall and took one step away from him, then another. The streetlight cast his face in too much contrast to read his expression.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, still backing away. “I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  THE TRUTH WAS, the person I wanted to talk to now wasn’t Bennie but Marion. I’d been in his old stomping grounds tonight. I’d met his brother. It had been like seeing the other side of a coin flip, the way things might have been. If Arimentha had never tried to kiss Marion, if they’d gone on as friends, maybe Philip would never have found out about Marion’s proclivities. Maybe Marion would’ve been there at the Roosevelt Hotel tonight, hair sleekly combed, smelling of spiced cologne and sneaking off to button-shine with some handsome waiter in an empty room. Maybe Arimentha would be alive and there to laugh with him when he returned all mussed. They would still be best friends, and I never would have met Marion at all.

  But that wasn’t true. He couldn’t have lived that life forever. He would’ve found us at the Cloak. He would’ve found me, and I would’ve found him. I believed that.

  The smell of something spicy and delicious hit me as soon as I opened the front door of my building. At first, I thought it was coming from our downstairs neighbor’s place, because the only times anyone cooked in our household were the rare occasions Rhoda came to stay with us.

  But upstairs in our apartment, I found Marion’s Bessie Smith record playing and Marion himself standing clothed in my mother’s green dressing gown in our tiny kitchen, chopping up onions with a giant knife. And beside him was Olive, swaying a little to the music as she whisked something in a saucepan on the stove. Her feet were shoeless and her legs bare of stockings, which were draped like two limp brown snakes over the back of a chair next to her handbag.

  “What you making?” I said, and Olive let out a little scream of surprise. Her wide eyes darted from me to the chair, and she snatched down the stockings and stuffed them into her handbag, her cheeks flushing.

  Marion turned and laughed, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “She’s seen stockings before, Ollie. Tell her, Mill. This place is stocking central with Gladys around.”

  “I—yeah—” But I found myself staring at Olive’s shapely brown legs and feet and realizing I’d never seen them before. Not really.

  Marion rolled his eyes and scraped the minced onions into the saucepan. “You’re both hopeless.”

  Olive whirled, too, and started madly stirring again.

  I cleared my throat and dropped into a different chair at the table. “Where’s everybody else?”

  Marion waved his knife. “Gladys is God knows where. I suspect she went on a date. And Cal’s still at the club.”

  “Did they know you were cooking? They might not have left.”

  “I didn’t mention it.” His eyes twinkled. “I’m making it for you. Well, we are, now.” He nudged Olive with an elbow. “She came over after work to see if you’d gotten back yet, and I recruited her. My arm needed a rest.”

  “Really?” I leaned over to see what Olive was stirring. It was thick and brown. “Is that a roux? Are you making . . . gumbo? Where’d you learn how to do that?”

  “Must’ve learned from a black woman,” Olive said. “Or else this roux wouldn’t be right.”

  “You caught me.” Marion laughed and brought a bell pepper and his knife to the table to chop beside me. “Enough about our business, Millie—what about yours? You going to spill or what?”

  “Course.” I fiddled with the saltshaker, which was shaped like a spaniel sitting up on its hind legs. I’d intended to tell him about everything in order, starting with Symphony and Jerome, but the news that I’d talked with his brother was highest in my mind.

  I watched his face as I said it. “I met Philip Leveque tonight.”

  Marion sucked in a sharp breath. He let the air out of his lungs slowly and started chopping again, more vigorously. “Let me guess,” he said, his tone acidic. “You found him delightful.”

  I snorted. “I found him . . .” I trailed off and Marion looked up, the oddest expression in his eyes, as if he expected me to have liked Philip and was bracing himself for the impact. “Repulsive. Snakelike. Satan on a stick?”

  Olive chuckled, and Marion’s shoulders relaxed. His smile returned. “He is horrid, isn’t he? Did you learn anything useful from him?”

  “Not exactly. He thought I was some spurned lover of Minty’s.”

  Marion touched his chin with a finger and considered me. “You do look like her type tonight.” He grinned and winked at me. “A boy with big secrets.”

  I laughed. “According to Philip, Minty had a lot of lovers floating around New Orleans.”

  “He give you any names?” Olive said, looking up from her stirring.

  I shook my head. “Apparently, Minty was good at keeping secrets when she wanted to. She wouldn’t tell anyone why she and Philip broke up either. And he sure wasn’t telling.”

  The bell pepper bits got smaller and smaller under Marion’s knife. Talking about his brother was clearly agitating him. I laid a hand over his. “I think you’ve chopped them enough.”

  Marion gave a little laugh and stood to scrape the peppers into Olive’s saucepan.

  “Speaking of potential lovers,” Olive said, “I talked to Lo for you tonight.”

  I brightened. “What did she say?”

  “She was there with her girlfriend. That’s why we haven’t seen her since New Year’s Eve—she’s been home in new-relationship bliss.” Olive stirred in Marion’s peppers, and I watched her shoulders move under the back of her modest dress. “Turns out she met this new girlfr
iend that night. Lo admits she tried to flirt with Minty, but when she got shot down, this other girl saw and teased her about it, and one thing led to another and now they’re together.”

  “So, Lo has an alibi for the rest of that night?”

  Olive winked over her shoulder at me. “And every night since.”

  I stood and leaned across the table to crack the window and let some of the steamy heat out. Down below, someone was hurrying across the courtyard from the club, toward the back door of our building. I turned to Marion and grinned. “Think we’re about to have some more company. You might want to get out of that dressing gown.”

  His eyes went wide. “What? Who?”

  “Lew-is,” I singsonged, enjoying the tables turning. Olive and I both cackled as Marion scurried from the room, struggling with the knot of the dressing gown’s belt.

  “That Philip,” Olive said when we’d calmed back down and she’d returned to the endless stirring. “Do you think he could’ve killed that girl?”

  “I’d certainly believe it of him. What a creep. But he has an alibi—says the cops already confirmed he was out of the city that night.”

  “He could be lying.”

  “I’ll check it out.” I pushed the spaniel saltshaker up on its paws, testing how far it could tip without spilling any salt. The truth was, it would be highly convenient for me if Philip was the killer and got his comeuppance for what he’d done to Marion and Arimentha both. But if his alibi checked out, I’d have to strike him off the list.

  Marion returned, looking a bit disheveled but attractively so, wearing a blue sweater and trousers instead of my mother’s swanning-about-the-house garment. And not a moment too soon—a buzz at the downstairs bell announced Lewis had arrived.

  “Millie, will you go let him in?”

  I raised my brows. “Seriously?”

  “Please?” He clasped his hands together and batted his lashes. “Just do it. For me.”