I rolled my eyes and shoved myself up from the table. When I opened the downstairs door, Lewis stood there, wringing his hands and looking nervous as a stray cat.
“I . . . I just . . .” he began, but I decided to put him out of his misery and invite him upstairs without making him ask.
“Come on. Marion’s making gumbo. You can have some in seventeen hours when he’s finally done.”
Lewis smiled gratefully and followed me upstairs.
The scene in the kitchen was a little different from when I’d left. Marion had his shoes on, for one, and the record had changed to one Lewis gave him for Christmas. Marion and Olive had traded places, so that he was the one stirring the pot, and she leaned over the table mincing garlic.
“Oh, hey!” Marion called with the utmost casualness, waving his spoon so that a drop of brown roux fell on the faded linoleum. “Come on in and sit down! Millie’s been telling us about her adventures at the Roosevelt Hotel tonight.”
Lewis squeezed between Olive and Marion to get to a chair on the opposite side of the table, his cheeks flaming red as his body brushed against Marion’s. I glanced at Olive, and her mouth curved up in a conspiratorial grin over the cutting board.
“Did you find out anything that will help Marion?” Lewis said, once he was settled and his cheeks had started to cool.
“Well . . . maybe.” I unbuttoned the collar of my shirt, tipped back my chair on two legs, and finished telling the three of them every detail of what I’d learned that evening, hoping they’d help me see some new thread I hadn’t.
Marion went quiet and contemplative as he stirred the increasingly delicious-smelling roux. Lewis watched me intently across the table, and Olive asked good questions as she chopped first celery, then andouille sausage.
“So,” I said when I’d finished, “who are our best suspects?”
Marion laid down his spoon and leaned back against the counter. “Okay, first we have Fitzroy DeCoursey, who’s been blackmailing people and is clearly terrible.”
“And Symphony Cornice,” Lewis said. “She seems peeved you’re snooping around.”
“Jerome Rosenthal is an anxious mess, too,” Marion said. “But he just needs to come to the Cloak and find some better boys to spend time with.” He glanced at Lewis, and they shared shy smiles.
“What about Daphne Holiday?” Olive said, scraping the last of the sausage off her board into the saucepan. “She was fighting with Minty.”
“And her younger brother, Claude,” Marion said. “He’s always mentioned as an afterthought, so he could burst in at the last minute as the surprise killer.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’ve had too much time with your detective novels lately.”
“Okay, fine.” He stuck out his tongue at me. “Really, my money’s on Daphne.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Why not Fitzroy?”
Marion shrugged and put another, larger pot on the stove. “Because blackmail is so boring. Thwarted love is so much more interesting as a motive.”
I laughed. “I don’t think murder is supposed to be interesting.”
Marion cocked an eyebrow. “Then why do they make so many movies about it?”
“Okay, true. I still like Fitzroy for the murder, though. He was the one quickest to blame you.”
“That’s true,” Lewis said, looking at Marion. “Reason enough for me to hate him.”
Marion beamed at him but shook his head. “Fitzroy was also the one who heard me ‘threaten’ her, so it makes sense he’d bring that up to the cops.”
“Fair,” I said, tipping my chair so far I almost fell over and had to grab the table to right myself. Olive gave me an amused look that I pretended not to see. “But he’s also broke, running with a spendy crowd, and a known blackmailer. I want to talk to him as soon as possible.” I stood and retrieved the city directory from underneath the telephone in the hall outside the apartment.
I was already flipping to the D section as I walked back. “DeCottens, a bunch of DeCou, DeCoulode, De—” I frowned. “There’s no DeCoursey. It skips straight to DeCuesta.”
“See,” Marion said smugly. “Told you it sounded like a stage name.”
“Or he’s unlisted because he doesn’t want to be found. Now what?” I said. “How do I find him?”
“I have no idea.” He smiled sweetly. “But I do know how to find Daphne.”
I closed the city directory. “Okay, I’ll bite. How?”
“Easy.” Marion licked the spoon. “On the Magnolia Club tennis court.”
CHAPTER
17
THERE WAS ONLY one tennis court where a girl like Daphne would play, especially a girl who reportedly played three hours every single morning, like clockwork. No public parks for her, oh no, she’d play at the private Magnolia Club. Luckily for me, Marion had been a member there in his previous life and knew exactly how to get me in.
I still thought Daphne was a long shot for the murderer, but eventually Marion had persuaded me that, as Philip Leveque’s girlfriend, she might know more about Fitzroy blackmailing him—or attempting to. So, on Monday, I went to school as usual and suffered through the required Mass for Epiphany, the first day of the Carnival season, but then I slipped into the gymnasium, borrowed a tennis racket, and stuffed a uniform from the tennis team in my bag. I slipped right back out before anyone could make me go to Latin.
The Magnolia Club wasn’t that far from Ursuline, just a streetcar ride and then a walk of a few blocks. On the walk, I stopped at a pay phone and called Philip’s office to check on his alibi, but his secretary wouldn’t give me any information. I’d have to try again later.
When I reached the club, I hesitated outside the columned antebellum mansion that served as its clubhouse. The property was surrounded on all sides by tall brick walls, but according to Marion, it wasn’t as impenetrable as it looked. The maintenance entrance around back was easy enough to find, with Marion’s directions. He’d said the door would probably be locked, and it was, but he’d also said to wait a bit for someone to come out and smoke an inevitable cigarette in peace without the swells watching him.
It only took five minutes for a black man in a white uniform to exit through the door and then stop short at the sight of me standing there in my schoolgirl clothes.
“Hi!” I said shyly. “I came out this way by accident and got locked—”
But I didn’t even have to finish my lie. The man in white hid the cigarette behind his back and held open the door.
“Here you go, miss. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
He probably spent all day having to put aside his own needs and act unfailingly polite to these wealthy people. I wanted to tell him he didn’t have to do that for me, that he could smoke his damn cigarette if he wanted to, but that would blow my cover. Instead, I just said, “Thank you,” and moved past him inside the door.
I navigated the plain halls in the back of the clubhouse and entered the grand front rooms, trying to find the tennis courts without having to ask anyone. But in a room with a swear-to-God actual suit of armor, a guy with a gold name tag noticed me and approached.
“May I help you, miss?”
“Yes . . . I . . . ah . . . I’m looking for the tennis courts? And the changing room? I’m supposed to be meeting my friend Daphne Holiday?”
“Ah, of course. Right this way.”
I followed the name-tag guy out of a side entrance and onto a shaded walkway next to a wide expanse of sunny court.
“I believe Miss Holiday is there, on the last court. Would you like me to summon her?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I want to change first. I see her now, thank you.”
He gave a little bow and retreated, leaving me alone outside a door marked LADIES CHANGING ROOM. Well, that was clear enough. I slipped inside and went to the far end behind a row of tall wood
cabinets, and rapidly changed from my school jumper and cardigan into an equally scratchy pleated wool skirt and argyle sweater. This is what they wore to jump around and sweat in? Sweating I would do for sure.
I wadded up my own clothes into the bottom of my bag, took the tennis racket in hand so I’d look like I had a purpose there, and exited the changing room. I squinted out across the sunny courts and saw a girl and boy playing opposite each other on the far court. They were the only players out at the moment.
I approached slowly, staying under the shaded walkway alongside the courts while I could, and watched them. It was Daphne and her brother, Claude. The closer I got, the clearer it was she was beating him to a pulp. He was running ragged, sweaty hair flopping down into his eyes, while she was bouncing on her toes and smiling. She zinged a ball way out of his reach and laughed gaily.
“Can’t we take a break yet, Daph?” he said, racket sagging.
“It’s only ten, Claude!”
“But I need some water,” he whined. “At least let me get some water. I feel a little sick.”
“Not again.” Daphne sighed heavily. “Go then, if you must. But be back in ten minutes or less.”
Claude shuffle-ran off the court before she could change her mind.
“I’ll be timing you!” she called after him.
I stepped out of the shadows onto the edge of their court. “Looks like you’re in need of a partner.”
Daphne turned to me and shaded her eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Not really,” I said, and stepped into the sun. “But we’ve met.”
I watched the realization dawn on her face. She glanced around quickly, as if afraid.
“How did you get in here?”
“I decided to pick up a new sport. Do you want to play or not?”
She took in my pleated skirt and argyle sweater. “You know how to play tennis?”
I bristled. “Of course.”
True, I hadn’t paid much attention in gym class, but I knew the rules and how the scoring worked. I knew you hit the ball with the racket and tried to make your opponent miss. It was right up my alley—if I wasn’t wearing this ridiculous wool getup, that is.
“Fine then,” she said. “Show me.”
I skirted around the court and took up Claude’s position opposite her. “I’ve got a few questions for you while we play.”
Daphne served the ball directly at me, and I dodged a mere instant before it would’ve hit me in the face. I glared at her, and she smirked. “Ask then. If you can.”
I picked up the ball and whacked it back at her. She returned it easily, and I missed it again. I kept the ball in my hand this time.
“I heard you argued with Arimentha McDonough the night of her murder. About your boyfriend, who used to be her boyfriend. Why was that?”
“Serve the ball.”
“Not until you answer the question.”
Daphne blew out a frustrated breath. “It wasn’t important. She’d tried to warn me away from him before but wouldn’t even say why. So, I ignored her. Serve.”
I bounced the ball and hit it. It barely skimmed over the net, and Daphne ran forward and scooped it back over to me. I scurried to return it, and Daphne barely broke a sweat sailing it back to me and out of my reach. I’d lost a point, but the ball was in my hand again.
“Did Minty take you upstairs on New Year’s Eve to continue the conversation?”
“No. God. I certainly didn’t want to talk about it more.” Daphne scowled across the court at me. “Hit the ball.”
I sent it back to her, and we had another round of volleys close to the net until I missed again and picked up the ball.
Daphne stomped her foot. “You’re losing on purpose.”
If only I was. “You didn’t talk to Minty any more that night?”
“No! My brother and I stuck together and made the best of it.” She set a hand on her hip. “If you’re just going to ask questions, I’ll wait for Claude.”
I sighed and served the ball back to her. She eagerly resumed her pose and sent an easy one straight to me, so I wouldn’t have an excuse to grab the ball again and stop the game. Okay. I’d just have to ask questions while we played.
“What do you think of Fitzroy DeCoursey?” I said as I darted forward to hit another ball.
Daphne’s mouth curled in distaste, but she said nothing, just sent the ball hurtling toward the back corner of the court, forcing me to run for it.
“I’ve heard he has a habit of blackmailing people,” I tried again, barely getting to the ball in time to clumsily hit it out of bounds. “Like maybe your boyfriend.”
Daphne caught the ball on a bounce and came closer to the net. To my surprise, the expression in her eyes was fearful. “What do you know about it?”
“I know enough.” I smiled. “Your boyfriend’s political career is pretty important to him, huh?”
Daphne’s chin rose. “Of course, it is. And to me.”
I moved closer to the net, too, and lowered my voice. “If you told the police what Fitzroy’s been doing, they’d have to look at him for the murder. And he’d be out of your hair, too.”
Daphne Fitzroy glanced at me keenly. “Is this what you’re doing—trying to find out who killed Arimentha?”
I nodded. “Did she ever tell you about people she was seeing? Romantically?”
Daphne shook her head. “She and I weren’t close anymore since I started dating Philip.” Her voice sounded regretful. “I only went that night because Claude wanted to go.” She looked at her watch and away in the direction he’d gone.
“Then what about rumors? Did you hear anything about her love life in the months before she died?”
Daphne squeezed the ball in her hand tighter and gave me a hard look. “You want me to spread rumors about my dead friend?”
“I just want to know who was with her on the balcony that night.” I stuck the racket under my arm and gripped the net with both hands. “I want to know why she died.”
Daphne sighed and glanced away, as if hoping Claude would show up. “Have you talked to Symphony?”
“She wasn’t much help.”
Daphne made a face. “Then the only thing I can tell you is the same thing I told the cops.”
I held my breath. “What’s that?”
“That Minty kept a diary. If you want to know all about her life, I bet it was in there.”
“Do the cops have this diary?”
Daphne shrugged. “I heard they looked for it but couldn’t find it. Hey—where are you going? Don’t you want to finish the game?”
“You win!” I called over my shoulder. I was already snatching up my bag and running toward the exit.
If anyone knew where Minty kept that diary, it was her former best friend.
* * *
“So . . .” I leaned against the bedroom doorframe and watched Marion organize my dresser drawers. “Were you ever going to mention this diary of Minty’s?”
Marion stopped, bent over a drawer. “Diary?”
Pink tinted the back of his neck, and I knew I had him. I waved a hand. “Don’t pretend you haven’t heard about it. Why didn’t you tell me? There could be a dozen potential murder suspects in there!”
Marion still wasn’t looking at me. “One reason is because I didn’t know if she still kept one.”
“But you knew she used to.”
Marion held up a white shirt with a blue blotch staining one shoulder, the shirt I’d been wearing under my cardigan when Virginia Baines “accidentally” spilled ink on me. “I tried to get this stain out, but it’s stubborn. I think we should just throw it out.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “That stain’s not the only stubborn thing around here.”
Marion whistled. “Look at the pot calling the kettle black.”
>
“Tell me about the diary.”
Marion sighed. “When I knew Minty, she was religious about writing in it. Always scribbling away.”
“According to Daphne, she never stopped. What was the other reason you didn’t mention it?”
Marion tossed the stained shirt on the floor and fiddled with the strap of one of my folded undershirts. “Because I knew you’d try to get it. I didn’t want you putting yourself in danger. I hoped finding the killer would be easy and we wouldn’t need it.”
“But we do need it. Daphne said the cops couldn’t find it, so Minty was obviously hiding it somewhere. You know where that is, don’t you?”
I waited for Marion to say something, but he concentrated on unfolding, examining, and refolding a pair of my pajamas for a lot longer than necessary. “I need you to promise me,” he said finally in the direction of the pajamas. “Promise you’ll be careful.”
“I will.” I moved across the bedroom to his side. “I swear to you I won’t do anything foolish, and I won’t get caught.”
“I know you won’t.” He tucked the pajamas in the drawer and looked up at me. “Because I’m going with you to make sure of it.”
My eyes widened. “No. That’s a bad idea.”
“The cops won’t be looking for me in the Garden District, will they? I’ll wear my most manly outfit, and I’ve been letting my eyebrows grow in.” He shuddered.
“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?”
Marion turned and shoved the drawer shut. “Say I can go, or I’m not telling you where the diary is.”
“Okay.” I resisted the impulse to throw a shoe at him. “Okay, you can go. Of course, you can.”
“Good.” A self-satisfied smile formed on Marion’s lips. “But first, we’ll need a costume and a crowbar.”
CHAPTER
18
TURNED OUT MARION was only slightly exaggerating about how little we’d need for this excursion. The crowbar I borrowed from its hook behind the bar Monday night as I was leaving work. We also needed dark clothes, so we wouldn’t stand out like sore thumbs at night, and we needed someone to drive us to the Garden District in the wee hours after the streetcar stopped running.
The Boy in the Red Dress Page 15