I mused for one second longer then since I’d heard nothing form Tuan, went into my office and got out the New Orleans phone book. I went to the “As.” Aha. Abeletti, Kitty Z. A Metairie address. Her name had been on the assumption papers. I wrote it and her phone number down on a post-it note. But I have a real life too, so I took some time to attend to it.
I invoiced a couple of clients via email. I called Theo and got the attorney information. I faxed the false appraisal to that office. Then I transferred funds from my Paypal.com account into my small business account. Some clients liked to pay me with credit cards rather than with checks, and it was easiest to do it through Paypal. Saved me the cost of having to validate each card plus pay their fees. Then I outlined a proposal for Western Horseman magazine, and decided I must work in my garden. I was out mulching my tomato plants with old hay when my cell rang. It was Tiffany.
“Hi there,” she said. “You hear from the husband?”
“Yes. All is well. He’s alive. Thanks for your help last night.”
“I got a thrill from it. Lifts me out of my otherwise dull life. What other crime-solving things are you up to this glorious morning?”
“Mulching my tomato plants.”
“That’s pretty exciting, all right. Any guilty tomatoes?”
“None so far, they’re all just little green balls. But to feed your need for excitement, Tiffany, I will let you know I am on my way to visit Mrs. Anton Delon, and then to find a mystery woman called Mrs. Kitty Z. Abeletti. You know anything about either of them?”
“Only that Mrs. Anton is unjustly wronged by her husband. I mean even if he’s right about her, he should keep it to himself.”
“Right,” I said, rising from the tomatoes, walking toward my back door. I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, and stepped into the stable’s cooler interior. I hung up the trowel, shucked the garden gloves and looked sadly at my worn hands. If only I’d started wearing gloves, say, ten years back…
“So, Bryn–I better let you go. You be careful out there, okay?”
“Yes. Thanks. Talk to you soon, girl.” I turned the phone off and went inside. I’d sweated in the garden so I took a quick shower and got dressed in city clothes again, this time, blue stonewash jeans and a flowy silk-type blouse, also blue. Madame Maigrèt was getting to me. It felt cool against my skin. I stepped into sandals with straw wedges, Payless Shoes. I checked the mirror. Mascara, lip-gloss, brushed hair, ready.
10:53 AM
I drove down Oakridge Avenue in Metairie. I was taking a chance that I’d find Mrs. Abeletti at home. The further I drove down the block, the smaller the houses got. Finally, I found it, a tiny white cottage, clipped lawn, no shrubs or flowers, neat and plain. The woman who answered the door held a wildly barking Chihuahua and was as neat and plain as her home.
“Mrs. Abeletti?”
“Yes?” We looked at each other through the screen door.
“Hello. I ‘m Bryn Wiley. I’m a writer and I wondered if I could ask you some questions.”
“You selling something?” The tiny dog, eyes as bulgy as Theo’s, maintained a low growl.
“No, ma’am. I wanted to drop by. See if you wouldn’t mind me asking some questions. May I come in?”
She was not inclined to open the door. I scrambled in my handbag. Found a little brass container, opened it and took out my business card. I pressed it against the screen. It said nothing but my name and address, phone numbers, email address and that I was a writer, but somehow a card reassured people. It at least suggested you were who you said you were, unless you wanted to go the trouble to have false cards printed up. Some people probably did that. I hoped it would work. Kitty Abeletti read it then looked at me suspiciously.
“What questions?”
“The fact is, ma’am, I am wondering why you would assume a property that belongs to a Mrs. Aimée Pritchard, now deceased some twelve years.”
Her grey, Dutch-boy haircut framed a sad face, and made her appear older. Her age-spotted skin paled. Her brown eyes looked close to crying.
“Mrs. Abeletti, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to cause you discomfort. It just seems peculiar. And I don’t mean to alarm you further, but did you know that the purchaser from whom this farm was assumed was murdered last week?”
She sucked in a big breath. The dog got quiet. Then she pushed at the door. Aluminum, it grated as it opened. “You better come in.” There was a droop to her shoulders that suggested she’d given up.
Faint smell of frying from inside. Old plush sofa and matching chair in faded gold. Small TV topped with Mardi Gras ornaments. Mardi Gras posters in gold, green and purple covered every wall.
“I see you enjoy Carnival,” I said. I was careful to say Carnival rather than Mardi Gras because that was what most natives called it. That and Fat Tuesday.
“Yes, miss. Please sit.”
I sat in an armchair. She perched on the edge of the sofa, set the dog down. It ran to my feet and sat watching me distrustfully.
“He won’t bite,” said Mrs. Kitty. I refrained from smiling.
“Would you like some ice tea?”
“That would be nice. Thank you, ma’am.”
She rose and minutes later came back with a tray and tall glasses of iced tea. I had been surveying the posters and noticed there were many framed pictures of costumed people at parades. I pointed to one. Faded, someone who might have been the younger Kitty in a kitten costume, posed sexy and coy. “That you, Mrs. Abeletti?”
She preened. “It is.”
“Lookin’ good, if I might say so.”
“Do you like Carnival?”
I sipped my tea, which was too sweet, then set it down and smiled. “I do. Love it. Moved here from Canada, so I could enjoy it year after year.”
“Do you costume?”
“Do I costume! Yes I do!”
She giggled, leaned toward me slightly. “Watcha wear usually?”
“Please don’t be offended, but it is one time I dress as sexy as I can. Last year I wore mainly a push-up type corset, black tights–I always think no one will recognize me–”
“And it don’t matter if they do, they’re probably drunk and don’t care, right?”
“Yes!”
We laughed together and I added, “I always go to the gay costume contest.”
“In the Quarters?”
“That’s the one.”
She looked at me more appreciatively. “That is some contest. I love to go watch. Those gay people know how to do it up right.”
“They sure do! Then I like to walk out to Canal Street and watch the floats, catch some beads, hug on strangers.” We each smiled, somewhat inwardly, having little private memories of wild Carnival times.
“So what’s my brother gone and done now?’ she asked.
“Your brother?”
“You asked about a property assumption, right? My brother got me to do it.”
“Who’s your brother?”
“You don’t know? Cade Pritchard, of course!”
“Cade Pritchard.” I’d gone blank. “You assumed the property owned by Marcie Goodall a week ago, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know that. Cade just said I need your help signin’ some papers. Could I come down to Ligitoni’s office? He needed a signature. Some big deal he was putting through, one that’d get him out of debt. Again. Said there was five thousand dollars in it for me, said it was legal–” she looked hard at me. “It was legal, wasn’t it? It all happened at the lawyer’s office. They can’t do anything illegal can they?”
“They’re not supposed to. But they can figure ways to bend and stretch the law. At any rate. You were an innocent party and few even know about this assumption. Much about it anyway. So there’s no suspicion there’s anything–off–about that assumption. Certainly there’s nothing that would reflect on you, Mrs. Abeletti. “
“I don’t mind saying since Burt my husband died his pension went with him. Getting by on Social Secur
ity is hard. That five thousand feels likes a million dollars to me.”
“I bet it does.”
“I’m not going to lose it, am I?”
“I will fight to the death to make sure you keep it, Mrs.–”
“–Call me Kitty. And I forget your name–”
“Bryn Wiley. Call me Bryn.”
“Bryn.” She smiled. The Chihuahua lay down at my feet, and went to sleep. I relaxed and waited. Smiled benignly. I liked her, old Mrs. Abeletti who was crazy for Carnival.
She resumed talking. “Cade called me up. Said come to Ligitoni’s the next day, take a taxi. He’d pay for it. All I had to do was to sign some legal papers. Help him out. The profit was so good I’d get money from it. He wasn’t lying this time. They put it in my account at Whitney Bank the same day.”
“Really.”
“Yes. I went right out and filled all my prescriptions. Hadn’t been able to in ten months. Cost me eight hundred dollars. But it feels good.”
“I bet it does. “
“Bought a multi-vitamin too and some of that glucose stuff for my arther-itis.”
“Helping?”
“Too soon to tell.”
“I’ve heard good things about it.” I drank the rest of the tea. “Wonderful tea. Thank you, Mrs. Kitty. Planning your costume for next year?”
“Oh. I don’t get out like I used to.”
“That’s a shame. Since you love it so much.” She stood. The dog woke and ran to her feet. I looked at her. A little old lady with her Chihuahua. A widow. All of her sagging, as if she were slowly melting down. A hint of the sauciness that she’d shown in the picture was still there, deep in her tired eyes.
I stood. “Tell you what, Mrs. Kitty. I will pick you up and take you to the gay costume contest next Carnival.”
Her face flooded with pleasure. “You will? For sure?”
“For sure. And we’ll have a ball!” We smiled. Tears came into her eyes again. I continued. “Thank you very much for your help. Enjoy your profit. It was a pleasure meeting you.” I went to the door, opened it, and smiled back at her.
She beamed at me. “It was a real pleasure meeting you too, Bryn. Watch out for Cade, though. He can be unkind. And he gambles way too much.”
“He gambles. Why, thank you, Mrs. Kitty.” I left.
1:10 PM
I sat in an all-white living room. Across from me a spinsterish woman in her sixties, lean, long, and mean-looking, listened coldly to me. She wore expensive floppy blue jeans and a designer denim shirt. Her grey hair was buzz-cut short above leathery cheeks. No makeup, except for pale pink on her lips. I was in audience with the wife of Mr. Anton Delon and I was nervous because I was lying.
“…Therefore, Mrs. Delon, I know your husband, Mr. Delon, is very supportive of the women’s shelters in our city and we were wondering if you have considered extending that assistance to other charitable organizations?”
“I still don’t see why you don’t take this up with my husband, Ms.–”
“Wiley, Bryn.” I handed her a card. She read it. “This says you’re a writer.”
“Yes. But I do work for the United Way at times. My way of giving back.” I smiled. She was not charmed. Perhaps Anton was right, she was an old crow. “I understand from Mr. Delon you’re a nurse?”
“That’s correct.” She’d offered me coffee. Now she drank from her cup. Air conditioning sussed around us. The room’s rear windows looked out onto a fountain in the back yard. A concrete nymph, topless, poured water from an amphora. The yard was severely clipped, hard-edged.
“He’s proud of the work you do,” I said.
Her face twitched as if with an unpleasant recollection. “He’s proud of my paycheck, is what I think you mean.”
“Oh! I’d think that would be of no concern to him. He’s such a successful man.” Her face jumped again, this time the tick more pronounced. I felt encouraged. “You wouldn’t call him successful?”
“This is none of your concern, Ms. Wiley.”
“Right. Your accent, New England?”
“No. Virginia.”
“Virginia! Wonderful place. Horsy.” Rich, I also thought.
“I rode when I was a girl.” Aha. Everyone has a horse story.
I leaned forward. “I ride every day.” Well, almost.
The shock was big on her face. I didn’t look rich enough in my K-mart jeans and Payless shoes to afford a horse. “Dressage now.” I took a stab. “I don’t jump any more.”
“Pity. I loved to jump.”
“As a girl.”
“Yes.”
“What about now? You seem quite fit. “
“I wouldn’t have time. Anton wouldn’t–”
“Anton doesn’t care for you to ride?”
“Anton doesn’t care. Period.”
“I see.” I squirmed. This was the part I hated. The prying part, the possibly hurting the person part. But I carried on. “Difficulties?”
She closed up. I trotted out the horse gambit once more. “I live on a small farm where I keep my horse.” Immediate brightness in her sharp blue eyes.
“Yes. My horse is named Count Amethyst, he’s a sort of warmblood.” Well. Warmbloods had been created from a mixture of breeds, right? “You’re welcome to come out and ride some day. Amethyst is a pretty cool customer. Saucy, but safe. Well trained to fourth level dressage.”
“Oh.” Her face slackened with yearning.
“Spouses never seem to understand their partners wanting to ride, do they?”
She nodded.
“My former husband hated it,” I added.
“You were married?”
“Some time ago.”
“Did your interest in horses end your marriage?”
“It didn’t help.” She didn’t need to know it was my horses and his alcohol. But now I’d given her a bit of myself. Maybe she’d return with a bit of herself.
Instead, she looked at a gilded clock on the marble mantel. “Ms. Wiley. It’s been interesting chatting with you–”
“–I meant it about visiting my place.”
“I haven’t ridden in years…”
“You could ride, or not. There’s just something so very soothing about being around a horse, eh?”
Her eyes grew distant. “Yes. I remember that feeling. Reassuring.”
“Yes. So come on out. I’d love it. I’m quite proud of my little ranchette.”
“Thank you. I might.”
I looked closely at her. She might really do it. She wanted to.
“Great. My phone numbers and my email are on my card.”
She picked up my card from an end table and held it in both hands, elbows jabbed hard into her thighs. She stared at it. Her hands shook.
With her eyes still down she said, “I support only one shelter. 1010 Longley Drive. Metairie.”
Abruptly she looked up at me. Her eyes might be damp. They were redder. “I don’t think you’re collecting for charities, Ms. Wiley. I’ve heard of you from Anton. I know you do some sort of detective work. A woman just died. On her horse farm.” She stood. “I must get ready for work. I will show you out now.” I walked silently after her. I stepped over the threshold and onto her front walk. She stepped outside. She was at least four inches taller than me. I looked up at her and extended my hand. Part of my brain was buzzing, 1010 Longley Drive, 1010 Longley Drive….
“Thank you, Mrs. Delon.”
She took my hand and squeezed it so hard I almost yelped. “You’re welcome. I’d rather my husband did not know you had dropped by, Ms. Wiley.”
“Mum’s the word.” I went to the Tempo. Through an open window, Lulu watched my approach keenly. 1010 Longley Drive…
Chapter Twenty Three
May 26, 3:15 PM
In minutes, I found 1010 Longley Drive. A two-story brick building, old, signless. An appearance of abandonment. Bottom story windows boarded up with plywood as if shuttered for a hurricane. None forecasted, yet. The second fl
oor windows were blanked out with mini-blinds. I suspected it had been an office building, or even an apartment complex. I parked in the rear, got out, walked around to the front door. The inner door had a buzzer. I pressed it and a voice said, “Yes?”
“Bryn Wiley. Mrs. Anton Delon sent me.”
“Mrs. Delon?”
“Yes.”
A loud buzz and I pushed open the door. Immediately in the hall a broad black woman, with a cautious smile, met me. We were the same height. She stared at me and stuck out her hand. I took it.
“Gayle Johnson,” she said. Dressed in a worn but well-tailored gray pantsuit, she smoothed the scarlet scarf tucked into the V of the jacket.
“How do you do, Ms. Johnson? Bryn Wiley.” I handed her a card.
“Follow me. You’re not allowed past the visitor’s reception area,” she said and she turned into a room with battered sofas. Worn, stained gray carpet. Walls no longer white.
She sat on one sofa and I sat in a ruin of an armchair before her.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I understand Anton Delon is the major supporter of this establishment.”
A hearty, rolling laugh. “He doesn’t support us. Uh-uh. Mrs. Delon, Daisy, she supports us.”
From down the hallway came the sound of a baby crying. I thought I smelled dirty diapers.
“Oh. I’d heard–”
“What’s your bizniss here, anyway?”
“I–well–”
Someone hushed the infant.
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