A Grave Mistake

by Stella Cameron

  “Being careful,” Wes said. “Keeping her out of his bank accounts and keeping him out of her pants. That’s your job.”

  “Pig,” she said. It still hurt a little that her husband was so willing to share her, but she smiled at him. “You can count on me.”

  18

  A honeymoon couple asked if Jilly and Guy would take their picture in front of the Hummer. “Where else but New Orleans would you see a thing like this?” the man asked. Guy obliged and returned to Jilly with a sunny smile on his face.

  “If I have to bail that pink pig out of hock, I’ll be so embarrassed, Guy.” Jilly would never get used to the folks who pointed at the Hummer and laughed. “It’s taking too long to get a prognosis on the Beetle.”

  “Your custom vehicle will be safe outside Jack and Celina’s place. Jack’s gonna hang some permit or other on the mirror.”

  Jilly pursed her lips. “Lovely. Someone’s goin’ to do something illegal and one of the men supposed to uphold the law thinks that’s just fine.”

  Guy wiggled his eyebrows. “Strictly speaking, I’m not on active duty. The permit is because they live here, I think,” he said. “Don’t you think Piggy’s a great PR tool? Wait till you have more business than you can cope with.”

  Jilly stood in front of the vehicle to block her own picture.

  “How come you had me meet you here rather than at Nat’s place?” she asked. “I’d like to thank him for all he did.”

  “Well, let’s say that boy prob’ly flunked house-keepin’, cher. He was nervous you’d visit before he has a chance to clean up. He reckons he’s havin’ us over when the smoke clears.”

  “I like Nat,” Jilly said. “So does Wazoo.”

  “Lord help Nat.”

  “I think he likes her, too.”

  Guy’s lips parted, then snapped shut. He said, “Ready to tell me what sent you out into the bad world last night?”

  “No. It’s not relevant.”

  “It is to me,” he said. “Poor old Winston Lemon probably thinks it’s relevant, too.”

  “Two separate things. What made me want to get some fresh air, then what happened afterward. Just another night of crime in the old city. I’ll make sure I visit Winston.”

  She could tell by the long, intense stare Guy gave her that he wasn’t buying her glib explanations, but she wanted to be well away from the Preston house when she told him a watered-down version of the truth. He would need time to accept that she had no proof so he could not do anything.

  “I could have interrupted a lovers’ quarrel in the cemetery,” she said. “But I’m glad I did because that man was mean.”

  “No. Mean? You overreact sometimes. I bet when he doesn’t have his gun and he isn’t beating up on a woman, he’s a pussycat.”

  He caught her by the hand and steered close to a shop window. With his free hand framing the right side of her face, he made sure she knew she had been kissed, and when he had given her time to draw in a breath, he kissed her again.

  Her eyes felt slightly out of focus, but she blinked at him and said, “What was that for?”

  “I’ve been waiting to get close to you for hours. It’s a good job you got here early or I would have marched up to the Prestons’ front door and kissed you right there. And kissin’ isn’t gonna be enough, lady. Just wait till I get you—”

  “Hush up,” she told him. “You can be so bad.”

  He played his fingertips over her mouth. “I want us to have a chance to be together without all this other stuff goin’ on.”

  She laughed a little. “Me, too.”

  “It’ll happen. You can’t figure out if two people work when they’ve only been together while visions of murderers danced in their heads.”

  “You’re funny. That’s true.” And the happy moment popped. She could almost see a big bright soap bubble splattering on the sidewalk. As far as Guy was concerned, she was still on trial.

  He looked at her and the smile was gone.

  All business, she said, “Guy, you being an ex-cop never came up with Preston. He doesn’t know. Neither does Edith or the other two. I mean, we can’t hide it forever, but for as long as we can might be good, unless you suddenly decide to return to active duty.”

  Just like always, he narrowed his eyes at the mention of whether or not he’d return to duty, but he didn’t protest the idea. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s get over to Dwayne and Jean-Claude’s place. Jack’s going to meet us there. Apparently they’ve been doing some homework. Hey—” he put an arm around her waist and studied her face “—I’m not sure it’s a good idea to take you to Les Chats.”

  “Why?” The bustle had started and a sidewalk portrait artist had chosen the exact spot where they stood to set up his easel. She and Guy moved a few feet. “Why wouldn’t it be a good idea?”

  “I think we’ve scratched the surface of a bog and it’s going to stink real bad when we open the thing up. So far all we’ve got is two dead men and a mess of details I know connect up somewhere. I don’t want you in danger.”

  He looked so sincere she could hardly bring herself to break a piece of down-home news to him. But she’d manage. “I’m already in danger—probably. I intend to look out for my own interests. Try to shut me out and I’ll be like a mosquito after the sun goes down. I’ll find a way to get you.”

  The smile he gave her was actually lazy. “I’ll get me a real big fly swatter.”

  She shook a finger at him. “Don’t you mess with me, Guy Gautreaux—or I’ll have to write to my brother and his bride and tell them to get back here from that trip they planned for so long.”

  On a gallery above, someone had decided to water pots of lush ivy geraniums. A gush overflowed and Jilly pulled Guy off the sidewalk.

  He covered his face and shook his head. “Okay, okay, you win. But this isn’t a game.”

  “You thought I thought it was?” She gave him a deadly serious look. “I saw Caruthers’s brains spread all over my yard at All Tarted Up. Let’s quit yakking and get on.”

  Guy held her hand firmly, jutted his chin, tipped his Stetson over his nose and marched along with enough attitude to make his boot heels ring.

  She hurried to keep up.

  In silence they cut through Toulouse Street, turned right on Royal, past the Court of Two Sisters and the smell of early morning baking and sauces guaranteed to make the mouth water. St. Peter’s Street to Bourbon, a right turn and a few short blocks brought them to a club with totem poles on either side of dark blue double doors. Totem poles carved in the shape of dozens of cats climbing over one another. Beside the totems were the glass-covered billboards all the clubs had. They showed off photos of beautiful women dressed as cats.

  “Don’t look at those,” Guy said, pulling her.

  “Why? Because this is a strip joint? Don’t be so weird.”

  “There you are, you lovely couple, you.” Dwayne hopped down his front steps, his hair wet from the shower, and looking snappy in a khaki shirt and jeans, no socks and expensive-looking brown loafers. He glanced at a billboard and immediately insinuated himself between Jilly and the pictures. He glared at Guy. “What are you thinkin’ of? Take my new young friend inside. Jack’s there and so is Nat and things are jumpin’.” He gave Guy a knowing sideways glance.

  “On second thought, you come with Dwayne,” he said, tucking Jilly’s hand under his arm. “You’re not a child but you’ve lived a sheltered life.”

  Oh, yeah, a really sheltered life.

  “Jean-Claude is my partner and you’re going to meet him. He is a lovely man, the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I’m glad for you,” Jilly said.

  “Now, I don’t want you to take what you see in the club seriously at all,” Dwayne said. “This is a dance club, not a strip club. People come here to watch the dancing. It’s very exotic and the artistes are incredibly accomplished.”

  Jilly caught Guy’s sweetly wicked smile and smiled right back. A stage
dominated the place, with trapezes and tall, red-carpet-covered poles running from the boards and out of sight in the rafters.

  Under the fingers of a tall, angular man with a cigarette in his lips, an upright piano that looked as if it might have been hauled off the bottom of Lake Ponchartrain, then set fire to regularly, emitted the kind of blues that turned Jilly’s bones to mush.

  “He is so good,” she told Dwayne.

  He laughed, hanging his head back and basking in the compliment. “That’s my Jean-Claude. Wait till you see him dance.” The serious look was back. “Some of the artistes are going to be practicing. If anything about them looks strange, just don’t watch.”

  Jilly nodded and flashed Guy an evil glare. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear. “You told Dwayne I’m a sheltered small-town girl, you creep. Wait till I get you alone.”

  “I’m counting on it. There’s our group. Sheesh, they aren’t crackin’ any jokes as far as I can see.”

  “Mornin’ all,” Guy said, sliding into a seat beside Nat, who didn’t bother to acknowledge his old partner. Jilly sat beside Guy with Dwayne on her other side.

  Jack had somehow got there ahead of Guy and Jilly and sat with his feet on the table and a mug of coffee beside his ankles. Jean-Claude left the piano, stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray he passed and came toward them with a loose-limbed gate. He sat with Dwayne.

  Canned music blared and Dwayne yelled, “Turn it down,” before a tall woman in gold, her face made up like an elegant, sequined cat, positioned herself at one of the poles, swung a leg straight above her head and did the splits standing up.

  Jilly said, “That looks painful.”

  “You have no idea,” Jean-Claude said with a smile.

  Although the place was all but empty, Dwayne leaned across the table to say quietly, “I’ve got a friend I trust who spends time at Jazz Babes. Has for years. They always have a high-stakes poker game going there and he has the money to play until he runs out of money. Reckons he’s seen some ruined men totter out of that place.”

  “Did he ever see Pip Sedge there?” Nat asked.

  “Maybe. He’s going slow with some of the information.”

  “That’s another way of saying the guy still doesn’t have enough money to please him. He wants to be paid,” Jack said.

  Jean-Claude sniffed and glanced at the woman on the stage, who had to be a contortionist.

  “She has the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen,” Jilly said.

  “Nice legs,” Dwayne said. None of the others made a remark.

  “Tell them what my friend did talk about,” Jean-Claude told Dwayne.

  “I like that man,” Dwayne said. “He’s got his principles. He doesn’t like men who mess up girls. He remembers that girl we were talkin’ about. The one who showed up dead at her parents’ place.”

  “After they’d been at Jazz Babes—or Maison Bleue as it was then—lookin’ for her,” Jean-Claude said.

  “Is this going to lead us back to Caruthers and Pip?”

  “Could be,” Dwayne said. “We gotta be patient. We don’t even know there was a connection between Pip and the other vic.”

  “I’d lay odds on it,” Guy said. “Keep going.”

  “This friend of mine said Pip got mad at the manager over there. Felix Broussard. Mad bastard. He’s been there forever. Pip threatened him because he said Felix was mistreating girls.”

  Jack swung his feet to the floor. “How long ago was this?”

  “Not recent,” Jean-Claude said. “Back around the time that girl got chopped. Several years ago now. Pip got thrown out on his ass—after Felix and one or two of his boys had a private chat with him.”

  Nat turned to Guy. “So Pip had an old history at Jazz Babes, a bad history. He must have been told to stay away but he went back.”

  “How do you know that?” Dwayne said.

  Nat shrugged and said, “When Pip was offed he was on his way to Toussaint. He had a matchbook from Jazz Babes with some instructions about finding a place in Toussaint. At least, that’s what we think he intended to do.”

  Guy said, “He never made it, but another guy was shot exactly where Pip may have been headed.”

  Jack stared at Guy. “Caruthers something?”

  “Yeah,” Nat said. “The other guy we mentioned.”

  “What did he have to do with Jazz Babes and Pip?” Dwayne said.

  “That’s the rub. Nothing. Not a blamed thing as far as we can tell.” Nat took off his fedora and threw it on the table.

  “There is a connection,” Guy said. “There has to be because there always is.”

  Tentatively, Jilly said, “I think Caruthers was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I don’t think the killer went there expecting to find him.”

  “What did he expect, then?” Guy said.

  “He didn’t expect a man to be delivering the ugliest vehicle on the planet and walkin’ around the place just to make sure everything was okay.”

  “I want to know who was in your house, Jilly, and what was the point?” Guy muttered. When the questions started he waved them off. “Forget I mentioned it. I’ll work on that later.”

  “Maybe he was lookin’ for somethin’ he could use against me—as some sort of blackmail,” Jilly said. “And the guy who did it could also have wanted to show me I’m vulnerable, that he can get at me.”

  Guy stared at her thoughtfully. “You could be right. Sometimes we make things too complicated.”

  Jack said, “The girl who went missing all those years back, her name was Paula. She was classified as missing for several days but then her folks got a call saying she’d been seen alive and kicking and in New Orleans.”

  They all leaned forward and kept their voices low.

  “A woman placed the call and said she’d meet the parents.”

  Nat got up and paced. He kept rubbing his eyes. When he got to Jack he bent down and said, “Did they meet?”

  “Probably,” Jack told him. “But the woman called the shots. Place, time of day. She took money from the father and took off—after she told him Paula had been pulled into a prostitution ring and was as good as a prisoner at Jazz Babes. Only trouble is that by the time the girl’s parents recovered enough from finding Paula in pieces at home and talked to the cops about what the woman had said, Jazz Babes was clean. If it had ever been anything else. And no connection was ever made.”

  “Did they find the female informant?” Guy asked.

  “Nope.”

  “We need to talk to the parents.”

  Nat grimaced. “I’d give back a month’s pay, maybe more, to know why the case records never got on the computer—and why there’re big chunks of simple information missing. Oliphant said the parents split up, went their separate ways. No trace of ’em.” Nat dropped into a chair again. “Seems to happen that way a lot when a couple lose a child. They don’t stay together. Seems a shame if you think that’s when they need each other most.”

  “It’s more complicated than that,” Jilly said. “What d’you think would happen if it got around that the police have found Paula’s dad and he knows who the informant was?”

  She had the rapt attention of all present. “I think that if the woman exists she’d be scared shitless—I mean really scared.”

  Nat guffawed. “We don’t have a clue where she might be, or if she’s anywhere. Probably six feet under by now with the circles she moved in.”

  “I guess,” Jilly said, but Nat’s defeatism annoyed her. “But it couldn’t hurt to give it a try.”

  “What do you think she’s going to do?” Nat said. “Come in waving a white flag?”

  “Cool it,” Guy said. “You need sleep, partner.”

  “And you don’t?”

  Guy ignored him. “I doubt we’ll get anything from it, but we’ll try, Jilly.”

  He was throwing her a bone, but she was sick enough of all the uncertainty to pick it up and be grateful.

  Nat straightened h
is jacket and wiped his face with a paper napkin. “If we had a description of the woman we could put out an APB, but that’s obviously out. Who’s going to pay for ads in newspapers all over the country?”

  “That won’t be a problem,” Jack said. “I can help,” Guy said, surprising Jilly.

  “We’ll chip in,” Dwayne told them. “Anyone have TV connections?”

  “We might be able to do something there,” Jack said.

  Several women moved around the stage now. At one point a group of them hooked their elbows together and did high kicks à la Rockettes. They were good, they also laughed a lot. Jilly stared at them, fascinated.

  A second barman arrived and flipped on the TV behind the bar. He stood with his back to the room, watching.

  “Nice work if you can get it,” Jean-Claude sang out in a smoky voice, and got to his feet. He did a soft-shoe across the floor toward the bar and said, “Harold, we pay you to work, not watch the box.”

  The barman turned and grinned, then went back to watching his program on some Podunk station.

  “I better stick around New Orleans for now,” Guy said to Nat.

  Jilly avoided looking at either of them but felt adrift. Where did she fit in now? she wondered. A lot of brave words on her part didn’t mean Guy wouldn’t shut her out.

  “Eh!” Jean-Claude called, and snapped his fingers when he had their attention. “I think you want to see this.” He inclined his head toward the television screen.

  Jilly got up, as did the rest of the group. The bartender laughed and staggered around behind the bar slapping his knees with a dish towel.

  “I hope it’s that funny,” Jack said. “A laugh is always a good thing.”

  “Turn it up, please, Harry,” Jean-Claude said.

  “Whooee,” Nat said, starting to grin himself. “That’s one familiar piece of real estate.”

  A reporter held a microphone for Lee O’Brien. They stood in front of All Tarted Up with a camera angle that showed off the pink front door.

  “No,” Jilly moaned. “What are they talking about?”

  She got a round of “Hush!”

  “In the yard behind the café,” Lee was saying. “I shouldn’t give any more details about what happened. I’d really better not.” She hesitated. “A man was shot to death there—in the head. His brains were everywhere. This bakery belongs to Jilly Gable. A peach. She’s an absolute peach and she’s had such bad luck with love and everything else.”