“Great-looking family,” Nat said into Guy’s ear.
“Yes.” Guy wasn’t feeling so good about this visit. Cyrus and Nat had set their hopes high and insisted Jack and one or two of his friends would be able to talk about the New Orleans club scene. Guy wanted history, the story of Jazz Babes. He wanted to trace Pip Sedge’s recent connection to the place, and his reason for having directions to Toussaint and Parish Lane in his pocket when he was murdered.
Each of them shook hands with Celina Charbonnet and stepped inside the flat, an eclectically furnished warren of comfortable rooms. Guy smelled apples baking, and cinnamon, maybe nutmeg, too, coming from his left, and looked into a kitchen at the front of the flat. He raised his face and sniffed, and when he looked at the others again it was Celina’s laughing, navy blue eyes that held his attention.
“Tarte aux pommes,” she said. “I’m bakin’ two. I’ll send some pieces home with you. Do you like kirsch—I do get a little carried away with my kirsch.”
Feeling no shame, Guy said, “Love kirsch.”
“Would you look at that?” Celina said. “Amelia’s gone. You can bet where we’ll find her. Jack’s waiting.”
They walked along a central hall and she led the way into a masculine study where a long, lean, dark-haired man with olive skin and eyes the same green as Amelia’s, sat in a well-used leather chair with his daughter perched on one knee.
“Cyrus,” he said with genuine pleasure. He set Amelia aside and got up to give Cyrus a bear hug. He looked at Guy and Nat, who introduced themselves.
“Amelia,” Jack said. “We’re goin’ to do some grown-up talkin’ here—”
“So would I please get lost?” Amelia finished for him, already on her way from the room. She paused and pointed at Cyrus. “Don’t you leave before I see you again, Uncle Cyrus.”
When they were closeted away, Celina included, Jack arranged his chair to face a billowy leather sofa and pulled up two overstuffed armchairs. “Pick your places. Coffee, anyone?”
Everyone declined.
“Dwayne’s coming over,” Jack said, and added, “Dwayne LeChat and his partner are club owners in the Quarter. They’re old friends of ours.”
“You could trust them to keep quiet about anything,” Celina said, glancing quickly at her husband.
“Les Chats,” Nat said. “I know the place, and Dwayne and Jean-Claude.”
Guy didn’t and wasn’t thrilled at the idea of getting more people involved.
His cell phone rang and he whipped it from his belt, embarrassed he’d forgotten to turn it off. “Sorry,” he said, glancing at the readout. Jilly knew he was tied up with business, but she was calling. “Excuse me.”
In the hallway, he walked toward the kitchen and stepped down into the warm, fragrant room. “Jilly?”
“Yes,” she said in a suspiciously small voice.
Suddenly it didn’t matter if she’d interrupted him “Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Spit it out,” he told her.
“You always make me feel like a nuisance,” she said. “Forget it. I was just trying to be open with you. Doesn’t matter.”
“You hang up on me, and—” he glanced around and lowered his voice “—I won’t tell you what I’ll do to you, but be afraid.”
“Goldilocks has to go to your place, Guy. At least if she runs free out there she’s not so likely to get killed by a car.”
“I’m not discussing that now.”
“Fine. Goodbye.”
“Jilly.”
“Okay. I wanted to let you know I’m in New Orleans today. I decided to come and visit Edith. Mr. Preston brought her here for a hospital checkup and now she’s staying at their New Orleans home until she gets her strength back.”
He took a deep breath through his open mouth. “Why didn’t you say something last night, or this morning?”
“I didn’t want you to try to stop me.”
“As if I could.” But he would have tried. “They’re in the Garden District. Big fancy house on Prytania Street.”
“How did you know?”
“Occupational hazard, I like to know who I’m dealing with.”
Jilly sighed. “What has Edith ever done to you?”
“She left you with an unfit father and ran off to chase a fast life.”
“Guy, she’s an unhappy woman. Did you notice…”
He waited.
“Did you think the excuse for her wrist being cut was a bit thin? And why didn’t they take her to the emergency room or call in Reb? I don’t believe it’s as simple as they want us to believe it is.”
He didn’t want to miss out on whatever the men were saying in the study, but he had to make sure Jilly was safe. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow. I don’t think I’ll get back to Toussaint tonight. I’ll call you at home, though.”
“I won’t be in Toussaint, either. I asked you a question.”
He puffed up his cheeks. “And the answer is that I don’t think Edith Preston cut her wrist while she was shaving her legs.”
“You think she… Guy, why would she try to kill herself?”
“That’s a deep question, cher. I’ll be glad to try to help you work through it. I don’t want you staying at their house tonight.” He really didn’t want her under the same roof as Sam Preston.
“I’ll be just fine there. Don’t be silly.”
His head started to pound at the temples. “Please, Jilly. If you don’t want to drive home alone, I’ll drive you. How did you get here?”
She was quiet for so long he bit into his bottom lip to keep from pushing her again.
“I’m going to stay. I already told Edith I would. I’m driving that ridiculous pink machine—and I intend to leave it here.”
He felt afraid. “I’m stayin’ with Nat. Cyrus has to get back to St. Cécil’s tonight. You can go with him. Jilly…” If he didn’t hold back what he really wanted to say, she wouldn’t cooperate at all. “Call me later, hmm?”
“Okay.”
“Is Preston there?” He couldn’t, not even when he really tried, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut in the danger areas.
“He will be,” Jilly said, her voice flat.
“Lock your door when you go to bed.” He bowed his head, expecting her to hang up, or let him have it.
“I’ll call you later, and Guy?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not a fool.”
This time she did hang up and Guy felt panicky. He didn’t have a thing on Preston. The man appeared the squeaky-clean antiques dealer he said he was, but the sight of Sam Preston cozying up to Jilly wasn’t easily forgotten.
Someone came in downstairs. Guy figured it couldn’t be Tilly and the baby because whoever it was ran upward, whistling.
A curly-haired blond man reached the top of the stairs and turned right without noticing Guy. The latest arrival had broad shoulders and a compact body molded to the inside of a black T-shirt. His black jeans were perfectly creased. He walked with purpose straight to the study.
“Hold up,” Guy said, striding to catch up. “You must be Dwayne LeChat.”
A pair of intelligent light brown eyes gave him a thorough examination. “That’s me. And you’re one of the policemen, although I don’t recall seeing you before. And I would recall it if I had.”
“Guy Gautreaux.”
“Jack mentioned your name. And your partner’s. Nat Archer—and I think I remember that from somewhere.”
Guy didn’t feel like going into his history with NOPD—or Nat’s. “We’re all glad you could come. Let’s go in.”
“If Jack and Celina want something—I’m there. Then there’s Cyrus—” he rolled his eyes “—who could turn that man down?” He smiled and raised his eyebrows.
“I’m told that what Cyrus wants, Cyrus gets,” Guy said, and went ahead of Dwayne into the study.
More introductions followed before they could settle again. Celina had moved to sit on a deep w
indowsill and light from outside turned her hair fiery.
“Dwayne,” Jack said. “What d’you know about Jazz Babes? It’s on—”
“Toulouse Street,” Dwayne said quickly. He sat in one of the armchairs and crossed his legs. “Used to be called Maison Bleue. That was some years back. Biggest mystery about that place is its reputation. Elite? High-priced trash more likely. What makes it so interestin’ to you?”
Guy shot a look at Nat. They hadn’t discussed this visit in enough detail beforehand. So Jack and Celina thought LeChat walked on water—Guy knew almost nothing about him. Trusting LeChat too much could be a deadly mistake.
Nat’s face told Guy nothing.
“Tell us what you know about Jazz Babes. Anything that stands out.”
“Nothin’ good,” Dwayne said. “And I’ll give you some free advice. Stay away from the place. Underage prostitution was their thing—until they got busted. Not that it stopped them. The way I heard it, they moved that part of the business off premises.”
“Where?” Nat said at once.
Dwayne shook his head. “Never bothered to find out but I probably can.”
“We’ll get you the information,” Jack told them.
“It was the killin’ that really cleaned up their act,” Dwayne said. “Some girl disappeared from home. Wild kid. Parents got a tip they should look at Maison Bleue. They went. They looked. Nothin’. When they got back home the girl was in her bed, only she’d been dead some hours then tucked under the covers while her folks were gone.”
“How did she die?” Guy asked.
Dwayne glanced at Celina. “Lack of breath.”
“Who owns the place?”
Dwayne said, “Used to be a Giavanelli stronghold. They sold it. It’s managed by a man called Felix Broussard. I’ll do some diggin’ there, too.”
Nat stuck out his long legs and drummed his fingers on his flat belly. “Could be time to concentrate hard on Jazz Babes. I’ll go take a look. Anyone know the name Pip Sedge?”
So much for treading lightly. Guy watched Jack and Dwayne.
Dwayne unwrapped a piece of gum, folded it twice and put it between white teeth. He frowned at Jack, who leaned forward and snapped his fingers. “Used to be a high flyer. Made it in real estate.”
“Wrong man,” Guy said.
“Let him talk.” Cyrus spread his hands. “Times change and so do fortunes.”
“That Sedge?” Dwayne shook his head slowly. “Lost his shirt. Poker. He couldn’t get it together afterward. He comes into Les Chats now and again. Quiet guy. No trouble. Jean-Claude, my softhearted friend, feels sorry for him.”
“You don’t read the papers,” Nat said. “If this is the same guy, he was murdered a couple of weeks back. Shot to death.”
Dwayne screwed up his eyes.
“This guy was divorced,” Guy said. “His wife figured they’d be better off not married. But they were still friends.”
“Sad,” Celina said.
“That’s him,” Dwayne told them. “That’s the one I was talkin’ about. His ex-wife makes wedding gowns. Real high-end. He was a nice guy.”
“That would be the one,” Nat said. “Zinnia. She cried when she was told about Sedge. I know on account of I was the one who told her.” He got up and paced. “Either Mrs. Sedge doesn’t know a thing about her husband’s life since she kicked him out, or she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Guy,” Cyrus said. “You’ll go see what you can get the lady to share with us, I guess.”
Already on his feet, Guy said, “I’m on my way. Best you don’t go this time, Nat.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
“She’s grievin’,” Cyrus pointed out. “What would it hurt to give her a little longer?”
“There are one or two things you don’t know,” Guy said. “I think there’s a connection between Pip Sedge’s murder and the way Caruthers Rathburn died in the yard behind All Tarted Up. That’s two deaths. Way I see it, we don’t know if scores are settled or if there are more to come. Time we don’t have.”
“You’re goin’ now?” Cyrus said, and stood up. “Of course you are. Okay if I tag along?”
“Probably a real good idea.”
“I wish Madge could be with us,” Cyrus said absently. “She’s the best when it comes to puttin’ people at ease.”
Guy saw Celina Charbonnet’s hand go to her mouth. The sad look she gave her brother said it all. She knew Cyrus and Madge were caught in a relationship only they understood.
A seven-or eight-block walk would take them to St. Ann Street, where Zinnia Sedge lived and ran her workroom. Cyrus and Guy left Nat to take Guy’s car and drive to the precinct house, then crisscrossed streets on foot. They found what they were looking for on St. Anne, just around the corner from Dauphine Street.
“In the courtyard,” Guy said, pointing to a board with Zinnia’s Bridal and an arrow painted on it.
Tall, black iron gates stood partially open. In the center of the palm-shaded yard a fountain bubbled and flowers overflowed along surrounding galleries.
Guy frowned and said, “Do these places look lived-in to you? Apart from by flowers?”
“It’s pretty quiet.” Guy pointed to a window one story up. “This is the place, though.” Zinnia’s Bridal appeared again, painted across a window.
Hurrying, as if he felt he must protect the woman from Guy, Cyrus took ringing metal steps two at a time and stepped into the recessed doorway at Zinnia’s. Guy caught up in time to see Cyrus try the door and find it locked.
A single gown stood in the window and Guy guessed it looked okay.
“Says she opens at ten,” he said, looking past Cyrus. “She’s late. Try the bell.”
“I think that’s for her home.”
“Good.” Guy pressed the bell and the two of them stood back to wait.
“There’s an intercom,” Cyrus pointed out. “She may have closed up shop and gone to stay with relatives.”
The logic of that disappointed Guy. He had become convinced he needed some input from Zinnia Sedge. “I’m going to have to find out who those relatives—or friends—might be.”
Laborious footsteps on the noisy stairs eventually produced a lady with curlers in her gray hair and a floral apron tied over a striped housedress. She wheezed with each breath and stopped frequently to suck in air through pursed lips—before replacing her cigarette.
“I hope we haven’t disturbed you,” Cyrus said, and Guy wondered if being so doggone polite ever got tedious.
“You made enough noise getting up here,” the woman said, talking around her bobbling cigarette. “What d’you want?”
“We’re looking for Zinnia Sedge,” Guy said, but he’d lost the woman’s attention.
“You a priest?” she said, leaning closer to Cyrus. She produced a pair of glasses with brilliant stones set in upswept black frames, and put them on to get a better look at him. “Yes, I guess that’s what you are.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Cyrus said. “I’m Father Cyrus Payne.”
The woman’s lips parted and she looked at the shop. The cigarette had burned down but lipstick-stained paper stuck the butt to her lower lip. “Did something happen to Zinnia?” she whispered, and stepped back to crane her neck and see the uppermost floor. “She dead? That would explain why I ain’t seen her for a day or so.”
“We have no reason to believe Mrs. Sedge has passed,” Guy said. “Does she often go away?”
A shake of the head sent metal curlers swinging. “Not Zinnia. Hardest workin’ woman I ever did see. Husband was no good.” She snorted. “Like any of ’em are. He took off and she’s been doin’ her best to keep things together. She and that Pip used to own this property. All of it.” She looked at the buildings surrounding the courtyard. “They had real estate all over. She never said, but if you ask me it was women and drugs—and gamblin’.”
Guy stopped himself from telling her she hadn’t been asked. He took out his badge and show
ed it to her. Not strictly kosher, but special circumstances required special measures. “Detective Gautreaux,” he said. “You are?”
“The caretaker. Miss Trudy-Evangeline Augustine. You can call me Trudy-Evangeline.”
“That’s a mighty fine name,” Cyrus said, and Trudy-Evangeline smiled, putting life in her pale blue eyes and dimples in her doughy face.
“Do you have a key to Mrs. Sedge’s property?” Guy asked.
“Sure do.” The six-or-so-inch-diameter key ring she pulled from a pocket reminded Guy of chatelaines of old. All business, Trudy-Evangeline selected a key and unlocked the shop. She stuck her head inside and yelled, “Zinnia! You here?”
She didn’t wait to walk in and Guy waved Cyrus ahead of him. The tiny showroom seemed curiously quiet, and so did a much larger workroom beyond where heaps of silks and satins and bolts of lace and pearl trim lay heaped on tables with sewing machine heads protruding from them.
“It’s not like Zinnia to leave a mess,” Trudy-Evangeline said, returning to the showroom. She wiped her palms on her apron and looked behind curtains covering dressing rooms, whipping the fabric back each time as if expecting someone to jump out.
“We better call the po-lice,” she said.
“I am the police,” Guy reminded her.
Cyrus put a hand on her shoulder and said, “We’ll look after you. I think we should check out Mrs. Sedge’s living quarters. She may be sick.”
“Oh,” Trudy-Evangeline said. “Oh, you’re right. What am I thinkin’ about?” A door at the back of the shop wasn’t locked. She went through and called Zinnia’s name again.
Guy stayed close and climbed stairs to the next floor behind her. Not a thing seemed out of place in the living room, dining room, bathroom or kitchen.
Trudy-Evangeline paused.
“What is it?” Guy asked.
“I feel funny about going into her bedroom. Bedrooms are real personal if you know what I mean.”
“We do,” Cyrus told her. “But I think we have to do it, don’t you?”
With a shrug, Trudy-Evangeline led the way to the very back of the flat and a large bedroom with white embroidered curtains that matched a coverlet on a smoothly made bed.
“If Zinnia left in a hurry, there’s no sign of it,” Guy said. “When do you think you last saw her?”
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